The Slow Burn
by GemThest
Summary: There's no time for feelings with kidnappers and murderers on the loose. For John and Sherlock, dealing with their emotions has always been a complicated give-and-take… Can they figure things out between them AND bring justice to the streets of London? Slash. Post TRF.
1. First Date

Chapter 1: First Date

I'm finally comfortable leaving the flat with Sherlock still inside.

It took some time, yes. After the – _wince_ – Fall, I found it difficult to let Sherlock out of my sight. How did I know he wasn't an apparition, wasn't going to just disappear the moment I looked away? I've always trusted Sherlock Holmes, but never before have I had so little trust in my own mind. My own perception. I couldn't handle it if he was to leave me again.

But after time I came to realize that Sherlock was back and he was back for good. The detective remained himself, stoic and difficult to read, but I could see that this had hurt him too. It was the only way I could forgive him. I saw that the separation was an absolute necessity, that he believed it was the only way to save my life. I cannot claim to have had a better plan, and even if I could, it is now over and done with. Sherlock did what he did, and it hurt him too, and now he is back. I am too grateful to have my best friend return to life to spoil it by questioning and accusing. Truthfully, it helped that Sherlock didn't seem to mind my honestly embarrassing show of clinginess after the initial surprise. In fact, there were instances where I thought he rather enjoyed it. But that could have been me seeing what I wanted to see.

Anyway, now I am able to leave the flat without panic, without the fear that when I return home I will be alone. Again. And so, for the first time in many, many months, I am on a date.

I almost didn't come. This Jennifer is a friend of Molly's, and while my initial reaction to her was favorable, I still wanted to spend more time with Sherlock in Baker Street. I knew it wasn't healthy, though, to abandon everything in my life just for him. We normal people need balance to function. So tonight I called a quick goodbye toward the kitchen while he examined who-knows-what, grabbed my coat, and headed out.

"So, Jennifer," I say as we settle down into our seats and glance over the menus. "How do you know Molly?"

A light blush colors her cheeks. "We met at a party for Scotland Yard, actually. I was one of the officer's dates."

I smile reassuringly, showing her I won't be jealous or rude. "Do I know him?"

"I doubt it," she starts to smile at me, but it transfers to our waiter as he takes our orders. Once he is gone, she continues, "He hasn't worked there for many years. Got transferred. I never did find out why."

"There are all sorts of reasons why that could happen." I acknowledge. "It's nice that you and Molly have remained friends, though."

"Oh, yes," Jennifer's eyes light up. "Molly is a great friend. I tend to attract girlfriends who are overbearing, but Molly is so sweet and gentle. What about you? How exactly do you know Molly?"

I can't tell from the tone of her voice the honesty in her question. After all, if she is friends with Molly then she must know about Sherlock. And knowing of Sherlock almost inevitably leads to knowing about me.

That throws me for a moment. Are Sherlock and I really that tied together? Is that what people see when they look at us, why they always assume we are in a relationship? When did it become an assumption in my mind that to know Sherlock is to know me? Thinking of my best friend sends my mind flying back in time, unexpectedly, to the night he returned.

…

_I sat in my chair in 221B, staring at the empty space in front of me. I had stayed away for a while, but Mrs. Hudson never rented the flat to anyone else, and I thought that maybe together she and I could learn to move on._

_It wasn't going so well for me._

_Sherlock changed so much in my life. He rid me of my limp and tremor, took a broken man and made him whole again. Sherlock accepted me, came to rely on me; he let me into his life when everyone else he had pushed away. There are no words to describe the connection we had. We lived together, we worked together, and we were friends, but it was more than that. When you run with Sherlock Holmes, it feels like it will never end._

_So why did it have to? Why did he have to leave? He didn't care about his reputation – no, that was what I worried about. That was my department. I did the ordinary stuff while he did the extraordinary stuff. Suicide? It was so…boring. Not Sherlock._

_And yet, here I am. Alone. In an empty flat, still cluttered with files and experiments. I looked around, absorbing the environment I had taken for granted for so long. Everything was the same, even after this time, and yet everything was different._

_All of a sudden I was grabbed with a desire to hold on, to find something that was tangibly Sherlock and keep it close. I didn't have that urge all the time, but when I did it would sometimes last for days. I knew it was better to head it off, to find something to placate the emptiness inside me before it festered into an unyielding crutch of loneliness and longing._

_There._

…

"John?" Jennifer's soft voice interrupts my flashback, and I remember her question.

"Sorry, lost my train of thought," I smile. "I met Molly the same day I met Sherlock, although I didn't get to know her until later. It was my acquaintance with him that really caused us to cross paths."

Our waiter arrives with our drinks. "I see," Jennifer says, taking a sip from her glass. She looks down to the liquid within as though contemplating. "So tell me… What's your favorite color?"

I laugh in surprise, and our conversation continues this way, full of playful banter and get-to-know-you questions. It is going quite well, actually, and I stop worrying about making a good impression and instead start to just be myself.

_Well, this isn't too difficult._ I think to myself, laughing at a funny offhand remark Jennifer makes. _Almost as easy as being with Sherlock._

Oops.

…

_On the mantelpiece, sitting patiently, was Sherlock's violin. I got up and, ignoring the stupid cane, walked as normally as I could to pick up it. As I reached out, my hand began to tremble violently. Frustrated, I clenched my fingers together until I had regained control. Then I lifted the violin gently._

This is where he placed his chin_, I thought, running a finger over the indentation at the bottom of the instrument. I plucked a string, listening to the note fade quickly. _He put his fingers on these strings.

_This wasn't right. Why was this hurting me so much? I had lost people before. Watched the light fade from their eyes. I was able to let them go. But not Sherlock. Why not?_

_I suppose it shouldn't surprise me. I shouldn't question it. Sherlock was so very different from everyone else in my life – wouldn't it be the same in his death?_

_I put the violin back where it was instead of hugging it to my chest like I wanted. I was not a child. I would not hold a remnant of a dead man like a teddy bear._

_With a sigh I headed back to my chair – because it was still my chair, just as the one across was still Sherlock's – and fell into it with a sigh, picking up a paper for lack of better things to do. Out of habit I reached for my cane, checking to make sure it was still there._

_It wasn't._

_Confused, I looked up. Everything was the same – wait, no, it wasn't. Something was different. What was it? Internally I cursed; Sherlock would have noticed the issue immediately. My eyes flitted around the flat, trying to discern the change. Besides the obvious – my missing cane – there was something off, something wrong._

_There. The door. I hadn't closed the door completely when I first entered the flat, with several inches between the edge and the frame, but now the two were almost touching._

_Someone had come in, taken my cane, and apparently left while I was musing over the violin. How could I have been such an idiot? So oblivious?_

_Besides that, why would someone take my cane? It was a very odd thing to do. Doesn't seem like Mrs. Hudson, she would have talked to me. Or maybe she wouldn't have. People tend not to speak to me as much anymore – I think they are worried about saying the wrong thing. Which, to be honest, is a perfectly reasonable fear. Even I don't know what will set me off sometimes._

_It was very rude, though, for someone to take my cane. As much as I hated the thing, I needed it._

"_Damn my leg." I muttered, throwing the paper back down on the table and standing slowly, trying to decide what to do. Maybe I moved my cane without being aware. But no, that wouldn't explain the door. Wind? No, the window was closed. All the evidence pointed to someone having been in the flat; the only issue was, I couldn't find anyone._

_Just then the door creaked and started to open. I looked up, my hand instinctively going to the small of my back for the gun that wasn't there. I hadn't carried it around since… well, since Sherlock._

_Then the door was fully open, and standing in my doorway was – Sherlock Holmes._

"_Sher-Sherlock?" I stuttered. Everything felt strange; the world took on a hazy grey tint. Was that really Sherlock standing in front of me? He looked real enough. The eyes, the cheekbones, the hair. He even had his coat. I took a step forward to check, but my balance was off. I felt like I was moving, but it was all wrong. What was that sensation in my stomach?_

Falling_, the doctor side of me said. _You're fainting.

_Then, overriding all else, _**It's** **Sherlock**.

_Everything went black._

…

"Are you alright?" I feel the warm pressure of Jennifer's hand on mine and I have to control the impulse to flinch away. _Since when has it been your impulse to flinch away?_ I ignore the question to myself and look up, seeing worry paint Jennifer's face. "John, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yes. I'm fine." I shake my head, trying to get my bearings. I thought I was okay leaving the flat. I was having a good time on this date. What is happening to me? "Really, I am." I grin. "I was just remembering something."

"Is that so?" Jennifer looks interested. "What kind of memory?"

I grimace. "It's… kind of a long story."

"I don't have anywhere else to be." Jennifer smiles, but this pushiness is starting to bother me. I know she is just flirting – hell, that's what we've been doing all night! There is no reason for me to be uncomfortable with this.

And yet, I am.

I think she sees it on my face, because she says quickly, "Or maybe another time. I understand wanting to keep things to yourself. I haven't told you half the crazy things about me yet."

I smile, but all of a sudden the double-meaning in her words are abundantly clear. Expectation of another date. Implied intimacy at sharing personal stories. _This shouldn't be bothering you!_ My head screams. And yet there, in the back, another voice says, _Is this really where you want to be?_

And as much as I hate to admit, as good of a time I am having, I know that I would rather be at Baker Street. I'd rather be making tea that won't get drunk, listening to whining about being bored, watching incessant pacing that makes me feel like _I_ am the one with pent-up energy.

"So…" Jennifer seems to be sensing that something is off. Great, now there's guilt to go along with… whatever it is that is driving my thoughts back to Sherlock and Baker Street. I think I know what it is, but I don't want to put a label to it. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. Except now I've thought his name, and apparently that is what sets me off. The end of the memory refuses to be kept at bay.

…

_As I came to, the first sensation I noticed was hands stroking my hair. Taking stock, I realized I was lying on the couch, my head propped up on a pillow. The palms of my hands hurt, like I had scraped them – oh, trying to catch my fall. Instinctive reaction. Beyond that, there didn't seem to be any other injuries. The hands were still moving soothingly through my hair, and I had a moment of contentment, not wanting them to stop. Then I realized who the hands must belong to, and I sat up quickly, opening my eyes and ignoring the rush of vertigo my sudden movement caused._

"_Sherlock!" I exclaimed, searching frantically. And then there he was. Right in front of me._

_Sherlock's gaze met mine, and for a moment I saw something akin to fear in his eyes. But that was wrong; Sherlock didn't get afraid._

"_John." It was Sherlock, alright. Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's inflection. No one said my name quite the way Sherlock did. When did I notice that distinction? Not important now._

"_Sherlock. You're – you're alive."_

"_Yes, John, obviously." Sherlock was still eyeing me cautiously, like he wasn't sure what I was going to do next. As if I could ever surprise Sherlock Holmes._

"_But…how?"_

_Sherlock's mouth twitched. "It's a long story. And I will tell you everything. But you just fainted; perhaps we should wait until you are sure you've recovered."_

_I thought about that. "Very reasonable." Very Sherlock. Reason and logic. Except that my best friend just came back from the dead, and that was completely illogical._

"_Come here, you idiot." I said, reaching forward and wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me. I felt him freeze for a moment before he relaxed, and then his arms tentatively came up to circle around me. It wasn't the most ideal arrangement, me sitting on the couch and Sherlock having been on his knees next to me, but I'd be damned if I was going to put this off just so we could both stand up._

"_Don't you ever, ever, do that again. I don't care what fantastic reasoning you have. Don't."_

"_John," Sherlock began, his voice slightly muffled by my shoulder, but I shushed him._

"_No, don't speak. You might ruin it." I held him closer and just breathed, taking in the scent that was Sherlock, feeling his heart beat in his chest. "Don't ruin it."_

_I sensed another moment of hesitation, but then Sherlock pulled me closer, his arms tightening around my back, his face pressed into the fabric of my jumper. And, per my request, he didn't say another word._

…

Jennifer clears her throat and smiles, trying to salvage the end of the date, I can tell. "What do you say about dessert?"

"Sure," I smile, letting her lead. I am fairly sure I won't be calling her again, but I can at least leave this amicably.

Suddenly, though, I feel my phone buzz with a text. I apologize quickly and glance at it, giving the excuse that it might be the hospital but knowing that this is probably not true. I am right.

_Lestrade's got a case. SH_

I feel my heartbeat increase as a smile rises unbidden to my lips.

"Not bad news, then?" Jennifer teases, seeing my expression. I am relieved she isn't mad at my unexplained previous distance. "No broken bones?"

I glance at her briefly, still grinning. "Not bad news for me, no. And hopefully I won't be dealing with broken bones."

I type my reply: _Need me now? JW_

I look back up and see she is still staring at me, though this time mild confusion is in her features. "Mind if I ask?"

"It's just Sherlock." My phone buzzes again and I glance at the message, smirking slightly. I slip my phone back into my pocket. "But, I'm sorry, it looks like we won't be able to have the dessert after all."

I think she smiles in understanding, but my mind is no longer on our conversation. No, it has drifted several blocks away to 221B and the man and his mystery waiting there for me. I make it through the goodbye pleasantries as I pay the bill and leave the restaurant with Jennifer, but I think we both know my heart isn't in it. I kiss her on the cheek as we part ways, but as soon as she is behind me my mind jumps back to my phone and the second message from tonight it contains.

_If convenient. SH_

**A/N: Well, there it is! The first chapter of my first multi-chapter Sherlock fic. Thank you for reading, and please let me know whether or not you think I should continue. Obviously it's going to get much more exciting from here, because a case is about to start, but I needed to set a lot of things up before I could just jump into it. Anyway, even just a "yes" or "no" saying whether or not I should put my time and effort into this would be great. Thank you so much!**


	2. Premature Conclusions

**A/N: Hello! First of all, a quick shout-out to the guest who reviewed my first chapter: I really appreciate it! Your feedback encouraged me to keep going. **

**Anyway, here is my next chapter. It takes place during the same time as the first, just from Sherlock's POV. We get a new memory and more information on Lestrade's case. I hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 2: Premature Conclusions

I sit at the kitchen table, measuring the consistency of effects regarding frozen blood within various containers for different lengths of time. My concentration has been very focused for several hours, and I am finally beginning to see some results.

Over the course of the day I heard John moving around the flat, reading the paper, watching telly, and on one occasion slipping behind me to make a cup of tea. He never asked what I was doing, didn't try to interrupt my focus. For that I was grateful, but now I am beginning to tire of this particular experiment (additionally, I have to wait three hours and forty-seven minutes before the next batch of blood will be frozen enough to test). I am just deciding to put my stuff away and ask John if he wants dinner when I hear him move around the front room, grabbing his coat and checking for his keys.

I begin to smile – interesting how our timing can be so perfect, sometimes – but then he calls,

"Bye, Sherlock! Off on a date, see you later tonight!"

Oh.

I take that back, that is not what I call perfect timing.

I try to analyze why this feels wrong to me. There is no reason for me to be upset with John going on a date. Except he hasn't been on one since I've come back. Ah, that's it. Perhaps I have become accustomed to his clingy behavior since I returned. Such behavior as constantly making sure I was present, even to the point of making himself uncomfortable. On several occasions he slept in his chair instead of his bed when I remained on the couch thinking all night. I told him it was unnecessary, but he insisted, and I realized I probably did not have much say in the matter. As vital as it had been for his safety, I had left him alone for a long time.

A date, though, really? Who could he have met that would be even half as interesting as me? The answer to that is, obviously, no one, but perhaps he needs a change of pace.

That is fine; I'm not that hungry anyway. I ate yesterday. Satisfied, I turn away from the kitchen table and head toward the living room.

I pick up my violin and play a couple of warm-up notes before launching into one of my preferred Bach pieces. This one is rather fast, and I find the driving tempo and intricate finger work a fantastic stress reliever. My eyes close as I play, and I lose myself in the music.

Stepping around the clutter on the floor, my eyes still shut, I imagine how people must have listened to this music over the ages. From live performances and upbeat dances to mp3 earphones, my mind flashes through hundreds of years of musical enjoyment from this single work. I wonder if anyone will play my compositions long after I am gone from the world. I wonder how many people will like it. _Plenty, of course,_ I tell myself. _You created it; of course it's excellent_.

_Does John like my music?_

I realize that I do not have an answer to this question. This disturbs me slightly. John has always encouraged my playing, showing verbal approval, especially when I play for others. But does he like it? Or is he just being a good friend?

As I consider this my fingers slow and I let Bach slip into my own composition, my thoughts transferring onto the strings. The tune is soft, contemplative, with an underlying current of doubt.

As I play, my mind slips back and I find myself navigating the realm of memories.

…

_If I was being honest with myself, I had been afraid of John's reaction to my "return to life". My eager anticipation of our reunion was tainted by worry of a violent outburst. I would deserve whatever I got, of course, and in all honesty a punch or, say, head-butt to the face would be completely within his right._

_I had refused to think about what I wanted to happen, so when I entered the flat prepared to justify my decision and take whatever abuse he could dish out, I was completely surprised by his actual response. I've had people scream, run, and cry when I enter a room, but fainting was a first._

_I lifted John from the ground and placed him on the couch, stuffing a pillow under his head. Hovering uncertainly, I thought about making him a cup of tea. But it might get cold, and then that would be a waste of my effort. Looking back at John one last time, I decided to take a quick tour around the flat. I hadn't been here for so long, everything seemed almost new to me again._

_Ah yes, there was my violin. And where – of course, my skull had been moved. I'd have to ask Mrs. Hudson about that._

_I continued to take inventory, but once I had gone over all the details and realized that John had left most of my stuff relatively untouched (sentiment?) I was gripped by a desire to remain by his side. It probably wasn't…prudent to put myself within his grasp, but I would deal with the pain if it could allow him to get over things and get us back to normal. I have, after all, experienced much worse._

_It had taken me a while to admit it to myself, but I missed my army doctor. Without him there to calm me down and level me out I had run myself ragged. I hadn't even realized how much I relied on John to keep me healthy and sane until he was no longer around._

_I looked down to see if John was close to waking and realized my hands had started stroking through his hair of their own accord. I froze for a moment, uncertainty gripping me like a vice. Then I allowed myself to continue the soothing sensation. John was unconscious anyway. I could give myself this._

…

"That's very pretty," Lestrade's voice interrupts me and I remove my bow with a startling screech of annoyance. I see him flinch as I open my eyes then narrow them instantly, deducing his reason for this visit.

"Let me see it," I say, holding my hand out for the case file.

"Yeah, alright," he acquiesces, giving me the brown folder.

"Kidnapping?" I ask before I've fully grasped it, flipping it open before he has the chance to reply.

Lestrade's eyes widen as he asks, "How did you know?"

I sigh; will no one even learn from my example? "You're out of breath – more so than just taking the stairs, so you rushed to see me. Missed a spot shaving; you must have gotten the call during your morning routine and you dropped everything to get into the office. All crime is time-sensitive, but when it's a homicide you aren't as hasty. The victim is, after all, already dead. You've come to me on the same day you got the case, but usually you give your team some time before admitting they're hopeless, so you want all the resources you have working as quickly as possible. A child, then? Parents can be very insistent."

"Alright, enough, can you just get on with it? Will you help?" Lestrade is impatient, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for my answer.

"Yes, of course." I flip to the next page of the file, taking in the pertinent details. "Three years old? Interesting."

"Yes, he went missing last night. His parents are divorced, his dad received custody."

"Alcoholic mother?"

"That's not in the file – how did you know that?" Lestrade sounds more exhausted than curious.

I smirk, "Rarely does the father get custody. One of the easier ways to prove incompetence in a parent is addiction."

Lestrade rolls his eye. "Yes, well, please hurry. The dad is, as you said, very insistent."

"Mmm." I take the file to the couch, spreading the papers on the table in front of me.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" I snap, tearing my eyes away to look back at the Detective Inspector. Does he not want me to start as quickly as possible?

He seems defeated. "Don't act too excited. Everyone is going to be a little sensitive to this."

I fold my hands in my lap and look Lestrade straight in the eye. I remain quiet, waiting until he becomes uncomfortable. He shifts and clears his throat, using the movement to break eye contact.

"I remember," I say quietly, my voice low as I recall the kidnapped children that took place during my hunt for Moriarty. This line of thinking brings about a memory much less pleasant than the one previous.

…

"_So don't you see, John? I had to. There was no other way. Moriarty was going to kill you. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I couldn't let that happen."_

_John was upset. Whatever joy there was at seeing me alive had faded, leaving room for the anger I had anticipated._

"_Weren't you thinking of how I would suffer, though, Sherlock?" John's fists clenched together. I almost wished he would punch me so he could get it over with. "I thought you committed _suicide_. I thought that I wasn't a good enough friend to show you your life was worth living. I had to watch you fall thinking _it was entirely my fault!_" The words exploded from his mouth and he stood there, chest heaving as he tried to hold himself back._

_Always the doctor. Always taking care, even preemptively. "But that wasn't it. I'm alive now, see?" I gestured toward my body and his eyes followed my movement, but then he immediately looked back to meet my gaze. Still angry._

"_That's not the point!"_

_I lowered my hands as I retorted, "Then what is your point, exactly?"_

_John looks incredulous, like he can't believe I'm being so dense. I despise that look. I am anything but dense._

"_My point," he begins, speaking through his teeth, "my _point_ is that you took everything we shared and reduced it to dust. Every good moment, every close call, every captured criminal, every cup of tea – none of it mattered." _

_He threw his hands down in frustration. "None of it was worth trying anymore. My _point_ is that you don't see how I perceived your actions for all this time. You can't just _erase_ that guilt."_

_I wanted to tell him it did matter – all of it. That I did it _for_ the good moments, the close calls, the captured criminals, and the cups of tea. That I couldn't bear the thought of a world without John Watson; my life was worth the risk, but John's never was. That I couldn't control his perceptions, but leaving my best friend angry and hurt and alive was a far better alternative than letting him be killed. But how could I say that to him? _

"_John." I waited until he looked at me. "John, I'm sorry."_

_Out of all the times I expected him to punch me, that one was not it. Apologizing usually calms people, not enrage them. John has always been unlike the others, though, constantly surprising me, so I suppose in this it should be no different._

_I raised my hand to my nose, feeling the blood run over my lips and chin. I looked at John, our eyes meeting. I lightly probed my face and, blinking away the instinctive tears, assessed the damage._

"_Didn't avoid my nose this time," I remarked._

"_No," John replied, still breathing hard. "No, I didn't. You made me properly angry this time."_

"_Ah." I felt the blood continue to drip slowly. This was probably going to ruin my shirt. I refused to take care of it, though, as I continued to look John in the eye._

_We stood there watching each other until finally I asked, "Feel better?"_

"_Not particularly." Was that the trace of a smile I saw?_

"_Ah." Repetition. Dull. But I didn't have anything else to say._

_There was a pause._

"_Are you going to take care of that?" He gestured at my face._

_I shrugged._

"_For goodness sakes," John rolled his eyes and grabbed a dishtowel from the kitchen, chucking it at me. I caught it and held it to my face, trying to staunch the blood._

"_Thank you."_

"_Shut up."_

…

I blink away the memory, aware of Lestrade's continued presence in my flat.

"Anything else?" I ask. "I've got a kidnapper to catch."

Lestrade sighs, rolling his neck and shoving his hands into his pockets. "No, I suppose not. You're bringing John in on this?"

I look away from him, losing interest in conversation. "Obviously."

"Good, good. That's…good."

I decide to ignore this and instead return my attention to the case file, familiarizing myself with the details.

Lestrade senses I'm not going to respond to his ridiculous attempt at what is either small talk or prying.

"Right, well. I'll see you two later, then."

"Mmm." I have almost completely shut him out.

He hovers in the doorway for a moment longer before finally leaving. The moment I hear the bottom door close I pull my phone out of my pocket.

_Lestrade's got a case. SH_

The reply comes quickly enough; he must have deflected his date's inevitable question before typing his response.

_Need me now? JW_

The date must not have been all that special, then.

_If convenient. SH_

As I press the send button I smile, knowing John is on his way.

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'd love if you could drop me a quick review letting me know what you think. Anything is wonderful, but if you prefer to answer specific enquiries, I'm worried about:**

**Is Sherlock in-character enough? I'm not sure if I've got his voice quite right. I want to make sure he and John sound distinctively different and themselves.**

**Were the deductions accurate? That's probably what I'm most worried about overall in taking on this case-including fic.**

**Was it descriptive enough? My goal is that you, as a reader, see it happening in your head.**

**I've already started the next chapter, so that should be coming to you soon. Thanks again!**


	3. Learning More

**A/N: Happy Easter everyone! He is risen! And a big thank you to all who have followed, favorited, or reviewed my story! Those emails always bring a huge grin to my face. :D I hope you enjoy this next addition.**

Chapter 3: Learning More

As I enter the flat I immediately see Sherlock in his customary "thinking pose," lying on his back on the couch, hands pressed together beneath his chin, eyes closed. That posture brings me a sense of relief that is surprisingly strong, and I pause in the doorway just to appreciate the moment. Then I speak,

"What's the case?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes pop open. "Oh, right. Kidnapping."

"Kidnapping? Like an actual kid?" I shrug out of my jacket and throw it over the back of my chair, my gaze not leaving Sherlock's prone form.

"Yes, a child. Around the age of three." Sherlock sits up quickly, turning so he can look me in the eye.

I am horrified. "A three-year-old? Why did you only say 'if convenient'? What if I hadn't come as quickly?"

"John, of course you would come." Sherlock gives me his we-both-know-what's-going-on-here face, and I try to ignore the stab at my dignity. "And anyway, I have already begun."

"Yes, well," I stammer, looking around the room. "Still. This is serious, Sherlock!"

"Of course it is, John." Sherlock's voice gets sharper, colder. "I understand the dangers of a kidnapping. Time is critical."

"I know." Immediately I feel bad. Why am I acting this way toward Sherlock? I couldn't wait to get home, and now I'm lashing out. "I'm sorry. What should I do?"

The crease of annoyance in Sherlock's forehead smooths out. "Lestrade left a copy of the file on the table. Take a look, then let me know what you think."

"Of course. Not like I'll get it right, though." I grab the file and flip it open.

"Let's not be too hasty. And as past has shown us, your wrong conclusions often lead me to my correct ones."

"Right." I recall a conversation in Baskerville. "What was it you said? I'm a conductor of light."

Sherlock blinks. "Yes. I'm surprised you remembered that."

"Of course I remembered it, you git. I only had a handful of nice things you said to me _to_ remember while you were gone." As soon as I say it, I regret it. I close my eyes and sigh, trying to think of words that can undo what I've just done.

I turn away from the file to look at Sherlock. He's staring at me, but I can't tell what he's thinking. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

He remains quiet for a long time, but I don't break eye contact. Then he nods.

"Kidnapped child, John."

"Yes, right." I look back to the file, trying to ignore my elevated heartbeat. It has to be from the thrill of the case and the worry for the child, not the experience of staring into Sherlock's eyes. The low lamp light had given them flecks of gold often unseen in the bright green and blue.

_Get yourself together, Watson_. I scold, narrowing my eyes and reading the file. As I begin to comprehend the details, my stomach turns to ice.

Sherlock begins to speak, "Yes, so. Parents divorced, father received custody because the mother is an alcoholic. The child's been gone since last night but they didn't come to the police until this morning."

"They?"

"The father and the housekeeper."

"Do they have any suspects?"

"Questioned the two of them immediately. Tomorrow we'll visit the ex-wife and see what she has to say."

"Lestrade's bringing her in?"

Sherlock shrugs. "It's the smart thing to do, so probably not. Her address is in there, we'll go ourselves."

Is the point worth arguing? I decide not. "Alright. What are you expecting?"

"I'm expecting answers. Yes, I do believe it would be wise to bring your gun."

I hadn't even asked the question. Frustrating how he does that sometimes. Amazing, brilliant, and fascinating, yes. But frustrating. Fascinatingly frustrating. Ooh, alliteration.

_You need to go to bed; you're starting to sound drunk._

"Good, yes, okay." I clear my throat and put down the file. "I should get some sleep, then, if I'm going to be handling dangerous weapons."

"If you must." Sherlock waves me off, then stops and holds out his hand, palm up. "Wait. First, give me back the file."

"You haven't memorized it yet?" I half-tease, taking the necessary steps to hand it over.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but I think I see his mouth twitch in amusement. "No. I need to double-check something."

"Sure." I stifle a yawn with my hand. When I lower it and look back at him, I see he is watching me.

"What?" I ask, feeling slightly self-conscious.

It takes a moment for him to respond. "Nothing. I thought I saw… But it's nothing."

I eye him suspiciously for a minute, but I am incredibly tired and not willing to engage in a battle of wits with Sherlock Holmes.

"Let me know if you decide you really did see something." I say and turn to go back to my bedroom.

I don't see Sherlock open his mouth once more, only to close it with a sad expression on his face.

I wake the next morning not feeling rested at all, but as I turn in my bed and start to let my mind drift, I recall the three-year-old child awaiting our attention. All I want at that moment is to go back to sleep, but I force myself to sit up instead.

As much as I want him to sleep, as well, I hope Sherlock spent all night figuring things out.

I pull myself out of bed and rub my hands over my face, trying to wake myself up. Once I gain the energy to move I pull on a black t-shirt and then a neutral gray jumper.

I take a quick detour to the bathroom, where after I do the normal morning activities I splash water on my face, which does wonders to make me feel awake. Then I head to the living room and find Sherlock pacing back and forth.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

Sherlock stops when he hears my voice and turns to face me, his gaze probing as he seems to be searching for something. "You tell me."

I am confused. "Well, there's a kidnapped child we need to find."

Sherlock does not dignify that with a response. I can't really blame him.

He then asks, "Are you ready to go?" and grabs his coat. I notice he's wearing a dark maroon button-up shirt. It contrasts nicely with the pale skin and the contours of his throat.

_You need to go back to bed, John._

"Sher-lock, I haven't even had _breakfast_." I hear the whine in my voice, but it is always harder to run around chasing bad guys when I'm hungry.

"Jo-ohn," Is Sherlock…mocking me? He's mimicking my tone. "There's a missing _child_."

"I'll just get some bread with peanut butter." Two minutes, then I will be a much better help and make up for whatever the time delay may cost us.

"We're out of peanut butter."

"Sherlock!" I whirl around. "How?"

I answer with him, our voices blending. "An experiment."

He looks slightly taken aback.

"You are not as unpredictable as you might think." I point at him and then finish making my way to the kitchen. "I'll grab a biscuit, and we'll go."

When we get to the street I allow Sherlock to hail the cab while I focus on my biscuit. As a doctor I know it's not the healthiest thing for me, but my experience with Sherlock has taught me to eat what I can when I can. Not a lot of room for being picky in that equation.

The cab arrives and Sherlock gives the cabbie what I assume is the mother's address. We settle down and I watch the buildings go by as we drive.

"I may make a scene." Sherlock warns me as we travel.

"How do you mean?" I ask. A "scene" from Sherlock can mean many different things.

"I'm not entirely certain yet. It depends on how she acts."

"You mean like receptive versus antagonistic?"

"Perhaps. It also depends on how recently she's been drinking, who else is in the room, and how we explain our presence. There are too many variables for me to say as of yet. Just go along with whatever I do."

"I'm not much of an actor." I protest.

"No," Sherlock smirks. "But _I _am."

No arguments here.

When we reach the mother's house, however, it appears that Sherlock's plan may be put on hold.

"Idiots!" Sherlock cries as we get out of the cab, making our way around police vehicles. "They'll never get the information if they go about it this way. Did they bring the whole Yard?"

I look around at the many vehicles surrounding the residence and I almost think Sherlock's not exaggerating.

"This ruins your plan, does it?" I ask, truly curious about how he was going to make a scene.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock pulls the caution tape and pauses just long enough for me to duck under before continuing his hurried pace. "They've gone and made her feel _attacked_, now she's certainly not going to give us anything useful. _Stupid._"

I'm beginning to see where the acting part would have come into play. After all, Sherlock makes people feel "attacked" just by being himself. "You were planning to make her feel welcomed?"

Sherlock spares me a glance, trying to measure the sarcasm in my tone. There is none, so I just cock an eyebrow and wait for his answer.

"Something like that, yes," he looks away and we enter the house.

The residence is not large, but the inside is nicely furnished. Middle to upper class, I would say, although if that mirror is framed by real gold I'd definitely switch my vote to high upper. I'm sure Sherlock sees much more than I as we glance around, but analyzing how much money they have seems less important than finding the mother and the police.

We did pass several cops on our way in, but our presence is so natural during cases now that rarely does anyone ever ask us what we are doing. It's useful in times such as these, where we aren't technically supposed to be around.

"Do you suppose Lestrade is here?" I ask Sherlock as I follow behind him. I'm checking doors as we pass, but Sherlock stares resolutely ahead, apparently privy to some information I'm lacking.

"Of course, I saw his car outside." Sherlock brushes off my query and jogs up a staircase, taking them two at a time. I curse his long legs as I run to keep up.

"How do you know where to go?" I wonder as we reach the top.

"I stop talking," Sherlock says, immediately making me feel like a child, "and I listen."

I'm not sure whether an apology or silence would be better after a statement like that, so I settle for a very small, "oh," and try to ignore the heat of embarrassment running up my neck.

Now that I'm quiet, I understand Sherlock's frustration with my talking. There are muted voices coming from a room at the end of the second-floor hallway and, now that I'm paying attention, a faint scent that seems out of place. I can't name it, but it throws me off. Knowing Sherlock, that was another clue to the whereabouts of the mother and the others.

We reach the door and Sherlock stops suddenly, holding out an arm to catch me as I practically run into him. He places a finger to his lips and then holds his ear to the door, listening. I listen too, but I can't make out any distinguishable words. A woman speaks, and then a man, and then…silence.

Sherlock and I exchange a glance and then he opens the door, striding in like it's Baker Street. I follow, more amused than embarrassed.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's shocked voice is the first thing I hear. "What're you doing here?"

"Trying to solve a case. I do believe it was you who asked for my help?" Sherlock heads to the edge of a bed, and my eyes follow his movement.

Sitting on the floor, her hand handcuffed to the frame of the bed, is what I assume to be the missing boy's mother.

"You handcuffed her to the bed?" I ask Lestrade, the annoyingly familiar feeling of confusion taking over. "Uh…why?"

"Use your eyes, John!" Sherlock admonishes. I do as he says and look more closely.

The woman is handcuffed to the bed. Obvious enough. It's her left hand that's cuffed and her right hand is gripping something very tightly.

I notice the lights are off in the room and the shades are drawn. Looking back, I realize this could be another way Sherlock knew which room was the right one.

Besides Lestrade there are two other cops in the room. Their stances don't appear to be threatening. More like they were…pleading?

"She handcuffed herself?" I wonder out loud.

"Very good, John." Beneath the inherit sarcasm I hear a string of real pride in Sherlock's voice. "Can you tell me why?"

I open my mouth to respond but Lestrade cuts me off.

"That's enough, you two. She refuses to come in for questioning. Says she'll do it right here."

The woman speaks for the first time. "There's too much _noise_ out there. And too much _light_."

"Late night, then." I say.

"It certainly was." Sherlock is pacing around her, getting every angle. He would be circling like a bird of prey if it weren't for the bed. "Spent most of the night drinking. The second night you've done so, judging by your stench and the state of your blouse. Did you go somewhere with cameras? A good attempt at an alibi, but we'll need to actually see the footage to be sure. I also – "

"Sherlock!" Lestrade cuts him off. Sherlock and I both look at him in surprise. "Sherlock, we know that already."

"Oh. Well, then, what don't you know?" Sherlock faces Lestrade head-on and clasps his hands behind his back.

"We don't know who took the child."

A trace of confusion flashes over Sherlock's features. "She did. Obviously."

"No, we've found the footage you were just talking about. She _was_ out drinking during the time of the kidnapping." Lestrade seems very confident in Sherlock being wrong. He seems to expect Sherlock to back down, maybe even apologize. The thought makes me want to laugh.

"Yes, of course you did. She still did it." Sherlock waves his hand at Lestrade dismissively and looks back at the mother. "The question is, how?"

As I watch, the woman sticks her tongue out at Sherlock. He smiles.

"Okay, thank you, I've got enough to go on now. John?" Sherlock turns to me and motions toward the door. "We're done here."

"What – but – now wait a minute!" Lestrade splutters after us as we head out. "What do you know, Sherlock? You have to share your information with the police."

"I don't _have_ to do anything." Sherlock replies arrogantly. "I can't imagine how it would be helpful to _you_ to know she paid someone to do it, or that her son is not currently in this residence but this is where he stayed last night."

"If you're just saying that to impress me – " Lestrade starts. Sherlock sighs and then inhales, and I can't keep the smirk off my face for what is to come.

"In the kitchen, crumbs on the floor indicate a messy eater around the countertop. She wouldn't eat there, her placemats are used enough to suggest habitual dining at the table. So, a young child sat on the countertop to snack while mummy cooked. Next: in the living room a box of children's toys is pushed hastily away and the arm of a bear is hanging over the edge. Normally the maid puts it away properly but she was distracted by trying to coax the young boy away without letting him take anything. Empty hanger in the closet above small pairs of shoes shows they probably took the boy's coat when they left. All that combined with the mother's obvious hatred of the court ruling, the desperate need to have her child returned, and the money to make it happen point to her being the instigator of the kidnapping and that the child must have remained here at least part of yesterday."

I can tell Lestrade is fighting between being angry and being impressed. "Where did this maid come from?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Oh, didn't I mention her earlier? She must be the one with the child now, though she wasn't the one to take him originally. You have _her_," Sherlock nods toward the mother on the floor "on videotape out drinking, securing her alibi once again. She has enough money for a gold-inlaid mirror and a house too clean for that of a drunk. Therefore, maid."

Lestrade is quiet for a moment, and Sherlock turns again to leave. I turn with him, and then we hear behind us, "What are you going to do now?"

"Investigate." Sherlock replies without turning back and exits the room. I follow.

I match pace with Sherlock as we leave the house. "What _are_ we going to do now?"

Sherlock grins at me, eyes flashing, and my breath catches in my throat. "We're going to get the boy."

**A/N: It would be great if you could take a moment and let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Either way, I appreciate your readership!**


	4. Sentiment, Surprises, and Shootings

**A/N: I apologize for taking longer to update this chapter. It turned out much larger than the others. I was going to cut it in half, but I want to continue my John-Sherlock-John POV pattern, and all of this needed to be from Sherlock's POV. Enjoy!**

Chapter 4: Sentiment, Surprises, and Shootings

I follow John into the cab and give the driver the address of our next destination. Then I settle into my seat, throwing a quick glance at John. He seems to be thinking hard about something.

I look out the window and consider our next move. There is obviously going to be security around the boy, far more than just a maid. The mother has more than enough money at her disposal. When we entered the house, I expected to have to deal with the child leaving the country. However, after reading the mother's face, I knew she hadn't sent him away. There is no way she would send her child out of the country without being right there with him.

_Sentiment_. I contemplate the word, lacking my usual derision. If John has taught me anything it's that sometimes it is okay to care. John made my work better. John _makes_ work better. When I let John in, I improved remarkably and have remained at that heightened state. And that's saying something, considering how excellent I was before.

Caring about John was literally my downfall. However, I outsmarted Moriarty, and now my life is more fulfilled than I can previously recall. And the man to thank is sitting less than a foot away from me in this cab.

Oh, maybe closer. The cab hits a dip in the road and as we get jostled, our knees lightly bump together.

Perhaps this connection I feel with John is similar to what this mother feels. She still did the wrong thing, and I am still going to return the boy to his father. But maybe I understand what she is doing and why she is doing it.

I have never felt like this before. It unsettles me.

Regardless. I know that the child is nearby. And I also know the address of their babysitter – it was taped to the mirror in her hallway. So that is where we're headed next.

"Sherlock," my companion spoke. "Do you still think I'm going to need my gun?"

I turn and catch his eye. "Yes, John, I believe you do."

"That's too bad."

What? Is this more…sentiment? "Why?"

John just looks at me. "I don't want flying bullets around a three-year-old child."

"You won't be aiming at the boy." I point out.

John sighs and shakes his head; there's a small smile on his face, but he doesn't look happy. "No, but accidents happen. And if I'm going to be needing my gun, I'm assuming I won't be the only one shooting."

"There are likely to be other shooters, yes." I acknowledge. I'm not sure what his smile means, but he's not angry, so I don't bother analyzing it. "I'm hoping this can be worked out professionally, but if it comes down to it, I'd rather you be armed."

"That makes sense." John lets out a short, un-amused laugh.

"Are you okay?" John is acting strange. I shift in my seat so that I can face him. He copies my movements.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine." His eyebrows scrunch together. "Why? Do you see something wrong with me?"

I'm not sure how to answer. I haven't told John what I witnessed the past two nights, or what I saw when he yawned yesterday. I'm not sure if bringing attention to the problem could make it worse.

"How have you been sleeping?" I ask.

John is surprised. He must think I'm changing the subject. "Fine. I mean, I'm not waking up particularly rested, but it's not like I'm waking up in the middle of the night from nightmares, either."

It's my turn to laugh without amusement. I return my gaze to the window, thinking hard.

"Sherlock." I return my attention to John when he speaks my name. "Sherlock, what is it?"

"How unrested do you feel?" I ignore his question.

John shrugs. If he's annoyed by my avoidance, he doesn't show it. "I just wake up wishing I could go back to sleep. Could just be waking up in the middle of a REM cycle. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. I'm still sleeping more than you." He grins, but I see slight worry under the expression.

I smile back at him, but it feels too forced. He shouldn't be worried about me. I'm worried about him.

That hits me. I'm worried about him. When have I ever worried about anyone before? (Obviously during life and death scenarios I do not want John to die, but this is different.) I don't even worry about myself.

He looks at me for a moment longer and then turns back to the window. I think he can sense I'm not willing to say anything more on the subject at the moment.

I let my head fall back in my seat and I close my eyes, casting my mind back to two nights ago.

…

_I reclined on the couch, resting. I was trying to decide if I could fall asleep or if I was doomed to a night of uninterrupted boredom. There was no case on, and I knew I should get some rest before my talents were needed._

_That time could not come soon enough._

_Realizing I wasn't going to fall asleep any time soon, I threw myself to my feet and stepped up and over the coffee table so I could get to John's laptop. Ignoring the open email, I went to his blog and started reading how he wrote up our last case._

_I noticed a shift in his writing from cases previous, but I couldn't put my finger on the change. The details were still as inaccurate as ever, with far too much emphasis about how everyone _felt_ about the whole thing as opposed to the facts and deductions. Perhaps John understood his readership better than I, but I still found the description of the crying mother terribly boring._

_Tiring of that quickly, I shut his laptop and tried to think of something else to do. I had a blood experiment planned, but even if I was going to start that immediately I would have to wait several hours before my first batch would be ready._

_Sighing, I was just heading back to the couch and contemplating reading a book on apiology when I heard John's terrified scream echo down the stairs._

_I raced to his bedroom, expecting to find an attacker (or many), but there was only John, thrashing in his sheets._

"_SHERLOCK!" His cry surprised me, especially when it was my name he yelled. I went closer to the bed but then hesitated as I watched him thrash about. He appeared to be having a night terror._

_**night terror**_

_**noun **__Psychiatry._

_Episodes of fear, flailing and screaming while asleep._

_A person experiencing a night terror may be dangerous and lash out, with the potential to harm anyone within reach._

_Night terrors are rare in adults, but can come about because of certain circumstances such as PTSD._

_Those who have night terrors often have amnesia or part-amnesia upon waking the next morning._

"_SHERLOCK!" John shouted again, his hand reaching out. I've heard him use that tone before. He must be…suddenly, I felt very cold. He was experiencing the fall._

_I shook his shoulder roughly, trying to get him to snap out of it. What I knew about night terrors did me little good in this instance, because I couldn't remember if I should wake him or not._

_But I couldn't just stand there listening to him shout my name in horror._

"_John," I said urgently, shaking his shoulder again. "John, wake up."_

_John sat up suddenly, his hand still reaching out. His heart was racing and a sheen of sweat covered his entire body. He didn't seem to be awake, however. I wasn't sure what to do._

"_John," I said again, softer this time. I reached out and grasped the hand he held in front of him. He gripped it back with surprising strength and I felt a strange jump in my abdomen._

"_Sherlock," his voice was hoarse from the screaming and his eyes searched the room unseeingly._

"_I'm here, John," I sat gingerly on the very edge of his bed, trying to lower his arm from the stretched-forward position._

_John sighed and relaxed suddenly, going limp and falling back into his pillows. His eyes closed but his breathing remained heavy. I watched him curiously, wondering if the screaming was going to start up again._

_I got so lost in thought that I didn't move for several hours. When the beginnings of dawn started to shine through the window, though, I decided I should go back downstairs. It probably wouldn't be good to get caught watching John while he slept, however unintentional the act had been._

_As I stood up my hand felt suddenly cold, and that was when I realized I had held John's the entire night._

…

Lost in the memory, I am flexing my fingers subconsciously when we reach our destination.

"You alright?" John nods at my hand. I look down to where he indicates and see my hand clenched into a fist. I relax my fingers slowly.

"Fine," I respond. "Hurry up, let's go!"

John and I exit the cab and I leave him to pay as I head to the front door and ring the doorbell. John reaches me while I wait and gives me an exasperated look.

"It's literally thirty seconds to pay the cabbie yourself."

"No time to waste, John." I inform him, raising an eyebrow. The front door opens.

"Hello?" A slightly timid-looking teenage girl is standing in front of us.

"Hello," I give her my most charming smile. I sense John start in surprise next to me. "My colleague and I are writing a column for the local news, and we were wondering if you would honor us with a quick interview."

"Oh, uh," she glanced around nervously, but seemed slightly more at-ease. Soothing it is, then. "Sure, I guess."

"Thank you," I smile graciously and wipe my feet on the mat before entering her house. Immediately I start picking it apart, but I see no useful data yet, so I return my attention to the girl.

"What's your name?" I'm making my voice intentionally soft and warm. I can see John struggling behind me. His hand flexes and two contrasting reasons for it enter my head. I'm momentarily distracted.

"Lydia." The girl replies. "What's yours?"

"Benedict," I lie. "and my colleague is – "

"Martin." John interrupts, getting himself back on track. "Do you have a place we could sit down? Might be a tad more comfortable."

"Oh, of course!" Lydia leads us into the family room and gestures toward the couch. John and I sit simultaneously. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you," I smile again. Being polite is annoyingly repetitive. "That's very kind of you, but unnecessary. Please, join us."

She sits and smiles at me for the first time. Ah, progress.

"So, what do you want to know?" she asks, leaning toward me slightly.

I mimic her body posture. I know how these things work, but it irritates me that the most effective deception has to be my least favorite.

"We can start with the basics. What is it you like to do?"

"I love to draw," Lydia gushes. Passionate. Good. "And I also love children. I baby-sit quite often."

"Do you? That's interesting." I exchange a subtle glance with John, whose eyebrow is slightly raised. "What are the children that you watch like?"

"They are absolutely adorable," she grins at me and I grin back, making sure to meet her gaze. Eye contact is important. "I especially love the toddlers. Always so eager to learn about the world, in their own way."

"I understand. I love children, too." Empathy. Make her feel listened to. I shift closer, like I'm sharing a secret. "I've always wanted to be a dad." Was that pushing it?

Her eyes light up. No, good call. "That's wonderful! Good dads are incredibly attractive." Then she blushes, like she didn't mean to say that aloud.

I run with it. "It's a very important trait when looking for your," I look down, faking a hesitation, then look up through my eyelashes, "other half."

There's no other word for it – the girl swoons. "That's so romantic."

I smile shyly. "Are there any toddlers in particular you watch that you could tell us about?"

Her eyes widen at "us" as she remembers John is in the room. I have to stop myself from smirking.

"There is one. Little Django. He's three. Very high-spirited and full of energy. I often take him to the park."

I lean forward, staring intently into her eyes. My voice goes lower as I say, "Tell me more."

I hear her breath catch. I make a sudden connection I hadn't seen before, but I don't have time to dwell on it. She's speaking.

"Well, uh, he also likes superheroes. We'll go to the park and run around pretending to fight bad guys." So focused on me, she forgets to be embarrassed. "He likes to be Captain America, and I'm Iron Man. And when he gets tired I carry him on my shoulders. He really likes that. Although," she reaches up subconsciously, "sometimes he pulls my hair."

I laugh softly, though it is un-amusing. "Cute."

"Oh, he is. Very soft, dark hair," her eyes go to my curls. "And his face is round, like all young children." I see her hand twitch on her thigh. "Nothing at all like…" she trails off, caught in my gaze.

John clears his throat. "Alright, good. That's very good. Thank you, Lydia."

I blink, and the spell is broken. Lydia turns to address John.

"Yes, sorry, is that all you need?" She glances back at me hopefully.

"I think we have quite enough, don't you, Sh-Benedict?" John's tone is forceful. Do I detect jealousy? Several pieces are starting to fall into place.

Thankfully, Lydia is still too focused on me to notice John's slip-up with the name. I turn to look at him. He's trying to remain calm, but I see anger in his eyes.

"Yes, you're right. We have plenty." I stand and John and Lydia follow my lead.

"Are you sure? I don't mind answering any more questions." Lydia smiles as she leads us slowly back toward the front door.

"You've been more than enough help, really," I smile at her and hold out my hand. She takes it eagerly.

"Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you," she smiles and gives my hand a soft squeeze before letting go. I may have taken it a tad too far.

"I shall." I nod at her and turn to leave. "Come along, Martin."

John follows my stride and we make our way down the street.

"What is God's name was that?" John queries once we're several houses down.

"What was what?" I ask innocently.

"You – Sherlock – you were _flirting_." The disbelief in John's voice is comical.

"Worked quite well, don't you think?" I flash him a smirk.

"Are you kidding? She was practically begging for you to stay. 'Quite well'." He huffs. "Did you really get any useful information?"

"My dear Watson," when I smile at him this time, it is fond and honest. "I learned a great deal from our time with Lydia."

John has to force himself not to smile back. His anger or jealousy or frustration is fading fast. He raises his eyebrows at me. "Care to share?"

"Well, her description of the child confirmed that the photo I saw on her refrigerator was of her and him, so now I know what he looks like."

"But there was a picture in the case file."

"That picture was old, John. Children change very quickly in their early years, and Lydia had a much more recent photograph on her fridge."

"I can read subtext: Lestrade's an idiot. What else?" John jogs a couple of steps to keep up with my long strides.

I'm proud he heard the insult without my having to voice it. I'm also glad he realizes that I do not blame _him_ for not noticing the picture inconsistency. He certainly understands me better than anyone else has before. I file that away for later consideration.

"The park. A rambunctious three-year-old that enjoys playing super heroes at the park. The child has been gone for almost 48-hours now; he must be feeling cooped up. If he is high-spirited as she said, they will end up taking him outside sooner or later. That could be our chance."

"How do you know where they will take him?"

"The picture again, John. It was taken at a specific park. Children crave routine, they'll see the fastest way to get him to calm down is to take him to his standard park."

"You know which park it is from the picture?"

"John, I know all the streets of London. I can recognize a park from a picture."

"Of course you can. Is there anything you can't do?"

"I've been told I'm fairly awful at explaining the solar system." John and I share a glance and then burst out laughing.

When we catch our breath, John asks me, "Wait, why are we walking? Shouldn't we have grabbed a cab?"

"No, we're almost there." I point ahead of me and we see the park coming into view.

"Right." John says. "They bring the child to the baby-sitter's house, then she takes him to the park near her home."

"Exactly. Still have that gun?"

Reflexively, John feels at the small of his back. "Yup, got it. I'm not going to have to use it in a park, am I?"

"I hope not. But I believe our journey to finding this child is coming to its end."

"Why?" John's honest curiosity makes me smile.

"I could explain it to you the long way," I begin, "or you could use your eyes and _look_."

John follows my arm as I point forward at the park. There are several children running around, but the one we want is on the monkey-bars, his weight being supported by a woman.

_The maid_, my mind supplies. Looking around, I see at least two other armed guards standing at a close enough distance to be trouble for us, but not so close that other parents might get nervous.

"I see two," John says, speaking my thoughts.

"Yes." I pull out my phone and open up a new message.

"Lestrade?"

"Mmhmm. John." I finish my text and look at him. "Take my hand."

"Wh-what?" The stutter is faint, but it's there. Yes, very interesting.

"Why would two men be at a park where children play? We don't have cameras, so not photographers. We're not in exercise clothes, so not running. We don't have a child of our own, so not using the playground. Easiest excuse?" I hold out my hand for him to take. "A couple."

John clears his throat. "People will talk."

I give him an exasperated look. "In this case, that's the point. We'll be conspicuous because of our alleged relationship, and therefore the real danger of us getting the child will more likely be overlooked. Also, it gives us a fantastic excuse to start a conversation with the maid."

"Oh?" John raises his eyebrow at me. He still has not taken my hand. "And what would that be?"

I just look at him, then pointedly at my still outstretched hand, and then back at him.

John rolls his eyes, grumbles something along the lines of "this is absurd and unnecessary," and then finally reaches out and takes my hand, intertwining our fingers.

I wasn't expecting that. I had been thinking along the lines of when we ran together handcuffed.

John reads the momentary confusion on my face and translates. "In a relationship, intertwining fingers is considered more intimate. You want this to be realistic, so there you go."

I nod and look ahead, reminding myself that this is for a case and _not_ because I remembered the warmth (and lack thereof) from the other night.

But his hand _is_ warm. And it spreads to me. Now there's warmth in my hand and in my belly and in my chest and I don't know what it means but I like it and I want to keep experimenting because I don't want it to stop.

Case.

We're in earshot of the guards now. I see them eye me suspiciously, so I pull John closer to my side and half-whisper, pointing toward the child,

"Oh, look, dear, how cute! Isn't he just the sweetest little thing?"

The expression on John's face makes me want to laugh, but I have better control over myself than that. He quickly catches on.

"Aw, yes, he is sweet." John smiles and we coo to each other over this little boy. The guards are still watching us, but I see boredom flicker on their faces. Time for the next step.

I tug on John's hand (a part of my mind still marveling at the feel of his fingers between mine and the way our hands just _fit_) and lead him over to Django and the maid. The boy is now sitting in the sand, digging.

"Your little boy is absolutely adorable." I address her, smiling charmingly. John does as well.

"Oh, thank you." The maid smiles, surprised but pleased. She doesn't correct us that Django isn't hers.

"Yes. My partner and I," I smile tenderly at John, a little surprised at how easy it is "are looking to adopt."

"How sweet," she smiles widely and I see all her misgivings disappear. "Would you like to play with him? He's very receptive to new people."

"Can we?" I act delighted. John and I crouch down to Django's level and I say, "Hey, little guy. Can we play with you?"

Django looks at us curiously for a moment, his eyes going from face to face and then down to our hands, still interlocked. He nods.

I smile widely and make sure to soften my eyes. "Thank you. Are you building something?"

He shakes his head. "Digging," he corrects.

John stirs next to me, reaching forward with his free hand to scoop some sand out of the hole. "Like this?"

Django smiles and nods, then puts both his hands into the hole and lifts out as much sand as he can hold. Considering he's only three and his hands are very small, it's not all that much.

He drops it all on a pile he has next to him, which is starting to get so big it is spilling back into the hole.

"Put yours there," he instructs John. Obediently, John copies his movements, dropping the handful of sand on the pile.

This seems to have bonded them. Django smiles and pats the space on his other side. "You can help. You'll be Thor."

John returns his smile and moves to sit where the boy indicated, forcing John to let go of my hand. I catch the scowl just as it starts to cross my face.

"Who are you, then?" John asks as he settles into his designated spot.

"Captain America!" Django says with pride. John laughs. I am reminded of what Lydia said. _"Good dads are incredibly attractive."_ I cannot deny that John would make a good dad.

"Who does that make me?" I ask, watching them dig. John catches my eye and grins. I smile slightly in return. In that moment, we're us, the real us, Sherlock-and-John, friends and flatmates solving a case – not Sherlock/John, the confusing other side of us that I made up to get to the child but is so exhilarating and natural at the same time that I need more time to think about it and all the other signs I've been receiving.

Django stops his digging to look at me as he considers my question seriously.

"Loki," he decides. I'm not sure how to feel, being labeled the bad guy. That's how most others perceive me – even to a child I am similar to one who is not to be trusted.

"Brother of Thor," John adds, smirking. My first thought is of Mycroft, and I am disgusted. Then I exchange it for John. But thinking of John as my brother makes me very uncomfortable, so I stop. Why would it make me uncomfortable? I certainly like him more than I do Mycroft. What does this mean? This is so _frustrating. _I need time to _think_.

John and Django focus on their digging once more, and the maid addresses me again.

"He seems to like you two. I think you'll make good parents."

I stand and face her. "Thank you. We hope that's true." I take a moment to glance at John, but he doesn't seem to be listening.

"I'm sure you will. You obviously love each other very much, and that's essential in building a good home for a child."

"I – ah – thank you." I stumble a bit. John notices that; I rarely stumble. He looks up. I meet his gaze. Neither of us look away.

"Police!" I hear Lestrade shout. "Stay where you are!"

Both of the guards pull out their guns. I duck down and attempt to get the child, knowing the maid will instinctively reach for him immediately. I win.

John stands with me as I pull the boy to my chest. He seems confused by all the commotion but doesn't understand enough to become upset. He's also reacting surprisingly well to being in my arms. Considering he sees me as "Loki," I thought that he would be averse to my touching him. Perhaps I am reading too much into a three-year-old's ability to apply subtext. Maybe I just look like Loki to him.

"Get the child and run!" One of the guards yells, pointing his gun at Lestrade's men. The other man is pointing that way too, but I can see he is itching to turn the barrel toward us. The other parents in the park have grabbed their children and taken off. I hear a woman's scream.

I look at John, who nods, and then I look at the maid. Her hand grips my arm tightly but she knows better than to try to force Django from my grasp.

"Please," she exhales. "Please, just give him back."

"You know this is wrong." I see it in her eyes. The grip on my arm slackens. I take the chance.

I run, seeing the second guard turn at my movement. He yells something unintelligible, pivots, and shoots.

The shot hits the dirt behind me, so no harm done, but it does cause the other guard to turn, and that's when Lestrade's men take their chance. They bring him down.

The guard who shot at me is still free, though, and he has begun to give chase. I hear another shot but the bullet goes nowhere near me and I realize that this one must have come from John's gun. There's no sound indicating a hit, but now I know that John has me covered.

Django is beginning to get upset. He's holding tightly to the front of my shirt and he's making the soft danger noises a child makes right before they have a big cry. The gunfire must be what is doing it to him. That and the running.

I pass by a concrete structure and both hear and see a bullet hit its side, just to the right of my head. I hold the boy closer and run faster.

I hear another shot and this time it is accompanied by a groan – not John, so it must have been John who shot. I look back but they are both still coming after me. It appears John only grazed the man's leg. It's actually an impressive shot, considering John must have aimed at his kneecap and fired while both were running.

"Sherlock!" I hear Lestrade's voice over the sound of running, breathing, the boy's crying, the maid's building hysteria, and the captured guard's struggling.

I don't respond to Lestrade and instead continue my dash, trying to make sudden turns and dips so the guard can't get an accurate picture.

Another shot rushes by me as I make a turn, and this one is much closer to the boy. His crying increases.

"Damn it." I hear John growl. He shoots, the sound reverberating through the air. There's a heavy _thump_, and I take the chance and look back.

The guard is down. John decided to go for the kill this time.

I see Lestrade's men have the other guard, so I am no longer worried about danger to myself or the child. I stop running, turn around, and head back toward John. He's standing over the body of the man he shot. I cannot yet see his face, so I don't know how he is feeling.

Django is still crying loudly against my chest. I place my hand against the back of his head, stroking his hair softly.

"Shh…" I murmur. "It's all over now. We're going to take you back to your dad."

My words do nothing. He is still crying. I roll my eyes but keep stroking his hair.

I stand next to John and look down at the body. I use my hand in the boy's hair to keep his face to my chest. I may often be insensitive, but even I know this is not the sight for a three-year-old.

"I didn't want to kill him." John says quietly. I barely hear him over the sniffling of the child. At least he's beginning to calm.

"I know." I respond. I wish I had my hands free, so I could place one on his shoulder.

John looks at me. The expression there is hard to read. He's not sad or angry. He's not upset at all. I focus on his eyes. They are the most expressive part of his face.

Disappointment. There are lines of disappointment in the creases of his eyes. And a flint of anger that I initially missed, hidden in the deep blue.

Lestrade's men arrive then to take care of the body. John and I step away. I catch John's eye again and hold out the child slightly, more than ready to relinquish my grasp. John smiles, and I am relieved.

"Yes, alright," he mutters, still smirking slightly as he reaches and takes the boy from my hands. Django clings to John willingly, wrapping his small arms around my companion's neck.

John rubs his back and bounces him a little, rocking from side to side.

"There, there. It's all over now." That sentiment works better for John than it did for me. Django is finally quiet.

"Well done, you two." Lestrade comes up to us. I give him a cursory glance. "You found the boy. How did you know they'd bring him to this park?"

"We had a little help from a rather… _eager_ babysitter," I respond, grinning when John huffs.

Lestrade examines our reactions. "What did you do to her, Sherlock?"

"Nothing John is unfamiliar with, I'm sure." John catches my eye and glares. I chuckle.

Lestrade doesn't know what to make of this exchange. "Alright, well, I'm going to need your full statements, of course."

"Yes, yes, very well." I wave my hand at him. "We'll be in tomorrow."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade's complaint is pitiful at best. I narrow my eyes.

"Look, we just found your missing child! No worse for the wear, other than a bit of crying. And John had to take down one of the men himself. Quite enough for one day, don't you think?" I glare at Lestrade haughtily. He lasts only a moment.

"Good shot, by the way," Lestrade addresses John. John just nods in response.

"Is there someone who can take him?" John asks, lifting the boy in his arms. Lestrade looks around and then motions someone over. I follow his gaze and see Sally Donovan head toward us.

"You're going to give that child nightmares." I inform Lestrade as she reaches us.

"Look who's talking, freak," she retorts. "He'll never forget being taken by you."

"Oi!" John interrupts. I don't spare him a glance, just keep staring at Donovan. She stares right back. "That's enough, you two. Here." John hands Django over and she takes him, breaking eye contact with me to look at the boy.

They stare at each other, one through wet eyelashes, and then the boy closes his eyes as if in defeat and slumps into her chest.

"Where should I take him, sir?" she addresses Lestrade, awkwardly patting Django on the back. It appears John has better parental instincts.

I look at John and feel suddenly giddy. We've solved the case, returned the boy, and there's still a faint tingle in my hand from where our fingers were joined.

"Come on, Thor, let's go." I say seriously to John, motioning him forward. I sense rather than see the dumbstruck looks of surprise on Lestrade and Donovan's faces. I suppress a smile.

"You are too much sometimes, you know that?" John remarks as we make our way to the main road. This time we will get a cab.

**A/N: Feedback would be much appreciated!**


	5. So Much Thinking

**A/N: I received a wonderful review from Anonymous:3, and I want to say with deep gratitude: Thank you. It completely made my day and I couldn't stop grinning. **

**I wish I could convey Martin Freeman's expressions through writing John the way he does on screen. He's the king of reactions. Please, use your imagination. **

Chapter 5: So Much Thinking

We've been busy chasing Sherlock's deductions and rescuing the kidnapped child, so I have not had much time to think about the reactions I keep having in regard to my best friend. We're in a cab now, though, and looking at a moderately long ride home. I take a moment to relax, and then I allow myself to think.

My first thought is denial. I'm not gay. I'm not attracted to men. And I am attracted to women. I appreciate looking at a pretty face or curvy hips just as much as the next straight bloke.

But I can't deny that _something_ has changed in our dynamic. At least on my side.

I look first at the non-physical reactions. Those are easier to come to terms with.

I'd rather spend time with Sherlock than anyone else. That's acceptable, that could easily be a best friend thing. My date with Jennifer took that farther, though, showing me that I would prefer to listen to him whine and complain (or, more pleasantly, deduce or play his violin) than have an attempt at a shag. Less of a best friend thing.

Then there's when Sherlock flirted with Lydia. The unexpected jealousy was very strong and fierce in my chest. Even with Irene (yes, I had been jealous of Irene) I hadn't felt such passionate anger. I repressed it for many reasons; first and foremost being it was for a case and I knew Sherlock was just acting.

Okay, friends can be jealous of other friends. But, if I'm being honest with myself, I wasn't jealous because of friendship reasons. It wasn't like we made plans to go bowling and he skived off to go hang glide with someone else. No, I was jealous because I wanted his attention; I wanted Sherlock to look at _me_ that way. She didn't deserve that display of emotion.

I take a measured breath; just remembering is causing the jealousy to rise again. I have to reassert to myself that it was fake. From the corner of my eye I see Sherlock glance my way curiously, but I ignore him and he turns his head to stare back out the window.

I rub my hand over my face once. Now I have to think about the physical reactions. I consider putting it off, but procrastinating this will not make it easier. No, better to come to terms with it now and decide what to do about it.

His gaze. Sherlock's eyes have started to do something to me that I didn't even experience with some of my ex-girlfriends. He gets my heart racing. And what is elevated heart rate if not physical attraction?

I try to justify it. Perhaps when it happens I was recently exercising (running is quite likely, we do that a lot) or I was hopped up on adrenaline while figuring out a case. I take a look at two specific instances when Sherlock and I locked eyes.

The one in our flat. Where I noticed the color of his eyes, and how the lamp gave them a golden glow. I had been home for several minutes by that point, over the exertion of walking up the stairs. We had been talking about the case for a while, as well, and that hadn't excited me enough to get my pulse to increase. But after that look, my heart was beating quite fast.

Sexual Attraction: 1 Pitiful Excuses: 0

Then there was that look when I played with Django. I hadn't heard exactly what the woman said – something about "love," but that was to be expected because we were pretending to be a couple and she was pretending to be a mother – but when Sherlock faltered it caught my attention. He is rarely caught off guard that way. And then we locked eyes, and neither of us looked away. My heart was racing even before the men turned their guns on us.

And then there were the other times, the quick glances, the shared jokes, and my breath would catch in my throat. What _was _that, if not attraction?

Pitiful Excuses, you are really letting me down.

Then Sherlock held out his hand, offering me what I desperately wanted. But I was conflicted. Not because I wasn't sure if I would like it (unfortunately, there was no doubt about that) but because I couldn't believe that _Sherlock_ would actually want it if it wasn't the best thing for the case. He can't be feeling the longing the way I do. What was it I said to Mycroft? _"He doesn't feel things that way."_

Can I do that to myself? Can I feel like this about Sherlock, and stay around him, knowing he won't feel the same way? I don't know. I'll have to think about that later.

Then there's my preoccupation with his – it's embarrassing to even think – _skin._ The skin along his hands, his chest, or, _God_, his neck. I don't think I've ever felt this strong of an urge to reach out and just run my hand over someone's skin.

Yeah, John, that's not gay at all.

But that's the thing. It's just Sherlock. Even thinking of other men that way makes me feel sick to my stomach. But Sherlock…with him it would feel good.

How did this happen? How could friendship turn into so much more? Has Sherlock's _personality_ been so attractive to me that his body became so, also?

On the other side of the seat, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice the sexual crisis I'm going through. I glance over at him and study his profile. His long neck, the curl of his hair, his lips…

_Damn it all_.

I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And with that realization, I have my answer. Can I be around Sherlock, feeling this way without ever making a move to make it more?

Yes. Of course, yes. I've already lost him once, and just the idea of doing so voluntarily shoots a sliver of pain through my chest. Sherlock and I are tied together, though we are not a couple, and if I have to be satisfied with solving cases, making cups of tea, watching crap telly, sitting in companionable silence, and sleeping alone, then I'll take it.

I realize how much Sherlock has already let me in. He can't stand most people, hates to spend even the minimal amount of time with them to get what he wants. But with me… we spend most of our time together. I mean, we live together, but then we also eat together, solve cases together, bum around in the living room together. I try to put Anderson (I don't even know why, just for reference, I suppose) or Lestrade or Molly in my place, and I can't. Sherlock would not be able to handle such prolonged contact with anyone else the way he does with me. Somehow, I am a fulfilling part of his life.

And just like that, I am happy. Will Sherlock ever love me back? I cannot let myself hope. But that is a selfish view of love, and what I feel has very little to do with me and everything to do with him. I love Sherlock the way he is, and I wouldn't ask him to change that for anything. I am happy because he wants me in his own way, and we can continue just as we have been. I know that I am special. That is enough.

The cab arrives at 221B, the stop jarring me from my thoughts. I follow out after Sherlock, who again leaves me to pay. Instead of being aggravated, however, I just grin.

_You're an idiot_. I think to myself. But I can't get the smile off my face.

After paying, I head up. Sherlock hasn't waited at the stairs, so I don't know what to expect when I reach the landing.

Sherlock is there, staring at the doorway. When I come through his eyes follow me. He's using that probing look again, trying to see deep down to the truth.

Should I hide it? Should I try to keep Sherlock from knowing how I feel? Can I?

I don't know if it's possible, but I have to try. I can't handle it if I scare him off, and Sherlock doesn't do those kinds of relationships. Things have to stay the same.

Deciding that, I return his gaze calmly and deliberately ignore my rising pulse.

"You're smiling." Sherlock states. I see a crease of confusion in his forehead.

"Brilliant deduction." My smile turns into a smirk and then I look away to take off my coat and hang it up.

"You just killed a man." Sherlock follows me as I go to sit in my chair and he sits across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, studying me curiously.

"I did." I hadn't thought about it that much in the cab. It wasn't a hard choice to shoot the man dead. I would have preferred if my aim at his kneecap had been more accurate, of course, but I couldn't let Sherlock or the boy get hit. I was disappointed he had forced me to it, and maybe a little angry, but it was easy to let go. "So?"

"You killed a man, and now you're smiling. Not a normal reaction." Sherlock is still watching me intently.

I'm used to it. I grab my laptop and place it in my lap but don't open the cover. Apparently Sherlock wants to talk about it.

"Sherlock." I look at him, still happy despite the slightly morbid topic, and smirk. "Do you really want me to talk about my feelings?"

Sherlock scowls, instinctive reaction, but then it slides off his face. "If your feelings don't make sense, then yes."

_If only you knew,_ I think. "Am I glad I killed someone? No. Am I glad doing so removed danger to your and the boy's lives? Yes."

"You were disappointed. I saw your face."

I tilt my head slightly. "Disappointed that he forced me to it. Not disappointed that I did it."

Sherlock's eyes sweep my face once more before he stands up. Knowing the conversation is over, I open my laptop and look down. I plan to write down my initial reactions to the case and the specifics I know I won't remember after time passes.

As Sherlock passes my chair to head toward the kitchen I feel a slight pressure on my shoulder. Surprised, I look up, but Sherlock has already let go and is behind me. I turn my head to watch him, but he doesn't look back.

_Thank you_, that touch said. I smile and let the pleasant heat rush down my arm. I glance at my fingers, remember how it felt to hold his hand in mine. Too bad not every case requires that specific deception.

I shake my head to clear it and go back to writing down my impressions and the details about our case. We still have to go in to the Yard tomorrow, which is an annoyance, but it's an occupational hazard for us, just like paperwork is for me at the surgery.

A little while later I sense Sherlock leave the kitchen and go to the couch. When I glance over he is lying on his back, hands pressed together. Thinking again.

We finished the case, so I'm not quite sure what it is he could be thinking about. Maybe the experiment he left in the kitchen. I smell the faint tang of blood in the air and decide not to go in there until absolutely necessary.

I take the next half hour or so to finish writing and then sigh and close my laptop, stretching. I lean back and close my eyes. I like this, sitting with Sherlock. We're on other sides of the room, and we're both silent, but that doesn't matter. It's about presence. I know he's there, and that makes me content.

My thoughts wander, starting on Sherlock but then moving to other things. I think I doze off at one point, because when I become aware of myself again there's a stiff pain in my back.

I open my eyes and blink a couple of times to get rid of the sleepiness, then lean forward and massage the offending ache. I glance over and see that Sherlock is still in the same position on the couch.

"Hungry, Sherlock?" I ask, standing. He must be. The last time we ate together was… two days ago, I think, and we've had the case since then, so it's definitely been too long since he's had a good meal.

Sherlock doesn't answer me, though I don't really expect him to. I stretch again and decide I'll take a walk to get our food instead of ordering it.

"Sherlock." I go over and stand next to his head. I look down. "Do you want something specific?"

Sherlock is still unresponsive. I look closer and…nope, not asleep. Either he's ignoring me or he's so deep in thought he doesn't hear me. Both are quite possible, so I don't bother trying to figure out which it is.

I stand there debating with myself for a moment, and then I reach out and lightly ruffle his hair. No reaction.

"I'll be back soon." I say as I head toward the door. "Text me if you decide you do want something specific." I grab my coat and leave.

The cool air is refreshing and I take a deep breath, starting to feel truly awake. I take a moment to appreciate how well the case went, dead guard notwithstanding. Sherlock was brilliant, as always, and I proved to be of use to him once again. There was a long time where I never thought I would have this life again, so in honor of that I take a moment to bask in the fulfillment of it all. This is where I'm supposed to be, what I should be doing.

I set off down the street at a brisk pace. I'm not sure what I'm getting yet; if I get a text before something strikes my fancy, then I'll get what Sherlock wants. Otherwise, I'm just going to enjoy the dusk until I see something that looks good.

Sherlock doesn't text, so eventually I just make a choice, and soon I'm headed home with our food. The smell is mouthwatering and I pick up my pace.

When I return to 221B I expect to see Sherlock still on the couch, but he's actually nowhere in sight.

"Sherlock?" I call, noticing his coat. He's not gone out, then. "Dinner!" I start to take the bags to the kitchen, see and smell his latest experiment (which is a lot of blood in different containers and apparently at different lengths of thawing), and slowly back away. I take the food to the central room instead and set it on the table there.

Sherlock still hasn't made an appearance. I roll my eyes; I may love him, but he can be bloody annoying at times, too.

I look longingly at our dinner. But it's hard enough getting Sherlock to eat while I'm eating with him; it becomes near impossible to get him to do so if I've already finished. With a sigh, I start to search the flat.

I can't find him in any of the shared spaces, so after standing in a moment of consideration I go and check his room.

The door is slightly open, but I knock anyway. There's no response, so I push it open farther.

Sherlock is there, in his "thinking pose," and I am momentarily confused. I glance back, but there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with the couch. He rarely uses his room, only to sleep, so I don't see why he would have moved himself here. He's not asleep; I can tell from his measured breathing and the position of his hands – if he were sleeping, they would be relaxed against his body. Instead they are pressed together tightly, far too much force for a slumbering man.

"Sherlock?" I say again. "Why are you in here?"

I honestly don't expect an answer, but he surprises me. "I needed to think." He sits up and opens his eyes, turning to face me. I frown, my eyebrows coming together.

"But…you were thinking on the couch. You never think in here."

Sherlock waves his hand. "Of course I do, I'm always thinking. But the couch is too close to the kitchen, I could smell the blood. It was putting me off."

"Then why didn't you clean it up?"

"That would ruin the results!" Sherlock looks at me like I just suggested dual suicide.

"Of course." I make a face. "Well, I got food."

"I'm not hungry." But Sherlock stands.

"Yes you are. Come on." Sherlock follows me to the food and we sit and eat in companionable silence for a while.

"How long are you going to have the blood in the kitchen?" I ask Sherlock after a bit.

He swallows before he answers, and I am momentarily distracted by his neck. My eyes snap to his when he responds, "Two days."

I grimace. "Two days? We're going to end up smelling like zombies."

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock scoffs. "Zombies smell like decay and rot, not blood."

I give him a look. "Well, we should at least warn Mrs. Hudson. Otherwise she might think we've killed each other."

"Feel free," Sherlock smirks at me over the top of his drink before taking a sip.

I roll my eyes at him, but I feel the edges of a smile pulling at my lips. I focus my attention on finishing the rest of my food.

When I'm done, I sigh and lean back, resting a hand on my stomach.

"That was good," I say.

Sherlock hums and stands up, heading back toward the kitchen. I look over and see he didn't finish all of his food.

"Why didn't you finish, Sherlock?" I ask. Then I wince, realizing how motherly I sound.

Sherlock glances back, stopping in the doorway. "I ate until I was satisfied. Is that not enough?"

"It is," I look at how much is left, though, and doubt that he was truly satisfied. No wonder he's so thin. "But you can eat just because it tastes good sometimes, you know."

"Why would I do that?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe for the pleasure centers of your brain?"

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "I got rid of those years ago."

I stare at him. "Please tell me you're kidding."

Sherlock shrugs. "The only thing that brings me pleasure is the chase, the puzzle. If I didn't delete them, they must have shriveled up."

This is ridiculous. "You can't delete a physical part of your brain!" I go back to the first sentence. "And I don't believe that."

"Believe what?" Sherlock crosses his arms and leans against the door frame.

"That the only thing that brings you pleasure is the puzzle and chase."

"What would you recommend, then?"

I hold my tongue. _Don't push him away_, I remind myself.

"John?" Sherlock is waiting for an answer. I open my mouth to reply – though I'm not sure what I'm going to say – when suddenly my left hand starts trembling. I look at it in surprise and clench my fingers together, trying to get it to stop.

When I look up, Sherlock is standing next to me.

"Is this what you saw?" I ask, remembering when I yawned and he blew me off. "The other night, before I went to bed?"

Sherlock nods, once, very slowly.

My fingers are still clenched. I focus and gently relax them.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I look back at Sherlock, slightly mad. "I thought this had gone away."

"It had." Sherlock's eyebrows are scrunched together. "I don't know…"

He's holding something back. He must be.

"Sherlock, tell me." I command.

Sherlock's eyes meet mine. "I know why you're always tired."

I look at my hand, then back at him. "This is related?"

"Yes." Sherlock takes his seat across from me again, pushing his plate to the side and placing his elbows on the table. "I think your PTSD is still here. Or came back. You've been having night terrors."

"No, I'm not." That's ridiculous. I would remember. "I haven't been having any nightmares."

"Not nightmares, John. Night terrors. And you wouldn't remember, that's one of the symptoms. But sometimes you scream."

Now I'm confused and embarrassed. I don't look at him. "Every night?"

"Not every night," Sherlock's voice is softer than normal. I still don't look at him. "The past two, yes. And when I first came back. But they had stopped, I thought…" his voice gets so quiet, I almost miss the last part. "I thought you forgave me."

Now I look at him. Sherlock's eyes are focused on mine, almost pleading, and there is something so young and innocent in his gaze that any residual anger I have vanishes. I'm not used to him looking so tender, and I'm almost undone.

_Maybe he does feel the same_, my brain betrays me. I told myself I would not hope.

"I did forgive you, Sherlock." I focus my thoughts on that. "Why would you think I haven't?"

It's Sherlock's turn to avoid my gaze. "That's what your terrors are about. The fall. I can tell by the way you say my name."

"I'm screaming _your name_?" I am mortified. "Maybe I should sleep somewhere else for a while."

Sherlock's eyes snap back to mine. "Why? So you can wake them up by yelling my name? Then people would certainly talk."

A small part of me is happy, because this is Sherlock's way of saying he doesn't want me to go. But most of me is still embarrassed. "I don't want to be waking you up, either."

"You're not. I'm already up."

I cringe. "What do you do?" He probably just ignores it, or is frustrated that it interrupts whatever experimenting or thinking he is doing at the time.

"I attempt to wake you." I look back at him, surprised. "It seems to calm you if I am present."

I don't know what to say. Apparently my subconscious is _trying_ to betray me.

_You can't always get what you want,_ I tell myself firmly.

"John? Is that okay?" The childishness is gone from Sherlock's eyes, but the innocence is not.

"No, Sherlock, it's not okay." I think I see a flash of hurt cross his face. "I shouldn't be having these. I'm _happy_." The contrast between the growl in my tone and my words is almost funny. Almost. "I appreciate you trying to help, I really do. But it's not okay that this is happening."

The pain in Sherlock's expression immediately faded once I explained further. He steeples his fingers together and runs the tips along his mouth before placing his hands under his chin.

"What do you want to do?" he asks calmly.

"I don't know what I can do," I sigh. "I have to sleep every night, unlike some people." I throw a glare his way. He takes it without pause.

"Perhaps we should experiment. Maybe if I am present when you fall asleep, your subconscious will more readily believe that I am still alive and cease tormenting you."

The thought of Sherlock with me in my bed does strange, not unpleasant things to my body. But I can't let that influence my decision.

"Sherlock… I don't know if that's the best idea."

"Why not? It seems perfectly sound to me."

"That's not… it's not what flatmates _do_, though."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Flatmates do not help each other out when one or the other is in pain?"

"I'm not in pain. It's not like when I treat your injuries. I'm just not sleeping all that well."

"And I have a plan to remedy that."

"Sherlock." I know I can't win on brains alone. Not against him. "No."

His hands drop in surprise, and he folds them together neatly. "No?"

"No."

He eyes me for a moment, reading the determination in my gaze. "Alright then." He gets up and heads back toward the kitchen. I gather our dishes and follow him, putting his leftovers in the fridge and quickly rinsing mine.

"John," Sherlock says as I am about to leave. "Should I refrain from entering if you yell again?"

I turn and look at him, but I cannot glean from his tone or face how he feels. "You said it calms me down?"

"Yes."

I shrug. "Do want you want, Sherlock. Apparently I won't remember it anyway."

Then I turn around and go to bed.


	6. Rationalizing

Chapter 6: Rationalizing

I am sitting in front of my blood experiment, but my mind is not on my work.

I know John has feelings for me. I've put all the pieces together, and I've come to the only possible conclusion.

What I don't understand now is why he isn't acting on them. He obviously wants to be closer to me than just a friend. What is stopping him from making a move?

_He's scared_, the thought slips into my head. _He doesn't want to lose you, even if that means giving up what he desires._

I am both pleased and disappointed by this. Why am I? What would I do if John did make a move?

Alarmingly, I find myself yearning for it. I want to hold him close to me. I want to feel his fingers between mine, want to put my face in his hair, want to wrap my arms around his steady presence and know that I am accepted for who I am.

_Accepted for who you are?_ My memories scoff at me. _Remember all the others? Who has ever wanted you for you? They want what you have to offer, preferably without the personality defects. They want your mind or want your body – they don't want _you._ They don't want you when you're mad or sulking, when you're deducing them to pieces. They want you when it's convenient. Not even your _brother_ loves you unconditionally._

I try to dismiss the sudden vitriol in my thoughts. This is why I don't spend time on relationships. This is why Irene is correct when she calls me a virgin. They are just a distraction; keep me from honing my mind.

_John is different,_ a soft voice in my head whispers. That's true. John is different, and always has been. John defends me. When he has expectations from me, it's because he believes me to be good, not because he wants me to change. He sees the best in me while everyone else lets me push them away.

Being with John would be a distraction. I need to focus on my work. I want to focus on my work. That's what I have, that's what I've always had.

Not being with John currently _is_ a distraction. I'm cataloguing all his different actions. I spent half my thinking time during that case on what John was doing, what it meant when his hand shook or his breath caught or his eyes held anger.

Regardless of our status to each other, John is a distraction. Maybe I should get rid of him completely.

I recoil at the idea. I literally flinch, my head jerking to the side and my hands clenching. I almost knock over the blood I'm currently examining. I cannot be without John, either.

I am at an impasse. It's very difficult, going in these circles in my head. I've thought and thought and thought and can't come to a conclusion. I wish there was an easy answer. I'm not use to this type of pondering – it is different from that of a case. Though arguably just as important. I _need_ to figure this out.

It doesn't help that my body is apparently betraying me. There is a significant increase in my heart rate whenever I look at John too long that cannot be accounted for by any other variables. I've also been too lenient with my hands – holding John's that one night, then again for the case, and earlier tonight, gripping him on the shoulder. They itch to touch him again to the point where I have to consciously hold myself back. If I had restrained myself _then_, perhaps it would not be so difficult to do so _now_.

This is why I've despised feelings and sentiment. They are so messy, difficult to understand. Yes, they are straightforward enough in manipulation, but when I actually _care_ about how someone perceives me or the effect my actions have, it becomes much more challenging. If something was ever going to work between John and I, it would have to be for me and not for a mask or façade.

What am I thinking? "If something was ever going to work between John and I"? How can it be possible? How could anyone love _me_?

Self-pitying thoughts are not conducive to a proper work environment. I stop inspecting my blood and stand up.

John has been in his room for the last three hours and forty-two minutes, but he's only been asleep for an hour and thirteen.

I'm not sure what to do if he has a night terror again. He said I can do what I want, and what I want is to be close to him. But the way he said it has me worried. It was…defeated. I don't like him to sound that way. John is my rock, steadfast in loyalty and unwavering in danger. I can count on him for everything.

I can't let this get him down. Somehow we have to get his subconscious to realize that I'm here and not leaving. This is why I thought being with him as he went to sleep would help. It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Also, since John is in love with me, he should have no reason to not want to be close to me.

_He doesn't want to lead himself on_, that same voice tells me. _He doesn't think you want it the same way he does._ Valid point. Do I want it the same way he does?

_Or maybe_, the darker side counters, _maybe his love is like all the others – conditional. He doesn't want you there when he goes to sleep or wakes up; he just wants you when he's in the mood, or it's convenient._

I know John isn't like that. But it's impossible to believe that this could be any different than how I've been treated in the past. I can see John is in love with me – all the signs line up – but I can't see the extent of that love. Maybe _he_ doesn't even know how he feels.

I'm not even sure how I feel.

I throw myself on the couch, but for once I'm tired of thinking. There's no solution to this, no way out. It's like hitting my head against a wall. Repeatedly. I feel the beginnings of a headache coming.

I rub my temples and try to distract myself. Luckily, I don't have to try for long.

Well, I say luckily. John is screaming again, which is good for me and bad for him.

I race up to his room and try not to think about how I make concessions for his feelings. I used to only bother with how things affected me.

"SHERLOCK!" That tone is making me relive the fall, as well, and I close my eyes against the pain of it all. If there had been any other way, I would have taken it.

I move to sit on the side of John's bed, but he's thrashing about. I know he wouldn't ever hurt me consciously, but in this state anything could happen.

"John," I say his name. He can't actually hear me, but maybe… "John."

He's still thrashing. One arm takes a strong swing and hits me on the side of my leg. I step back; I hadn't realized I allowed myself to get so close.

"John," I say again, a bit louder. His movements start to slow, but I can't be sure if it's from my voice or just because it has run its course.

"Sherlock," he breathes. For a moment it feels as if my heart stops.

_Ridiculous, one's heart does not stop unless having a heart attack or dead. You are clearly neither._

I stare down at John. He's still now, the only movement his chest in a slow rise and fall. I am strangely entranced by his breathing. I stand watching for far longer than what can be considered normal.

I should not do this to myself. I should walk away, go back to the living room. I should read or experiment or think or sleep. I should do anything else but stay here with John.

I do not move.

Everything else seems so boring. I'm not bored when I'm here. With John there's always something new, a new feeling or thought or exchange. Stressful, too, but not boring.

I'm not bored now.

My headache has cleared. I cannot name the balm that relieved it, but the cool dark room and the steady breathing of my best friend may have something to do with it.

I cannot let myself touch him.

_He said you can do what you want_. I know he didn't mean it the way my mind is telling me. It wasn't an invitation.

No.

This is all so confusing, but I do know one thing – I do not want to lose John Watson. A romantic relationship could ruin what we have. I know that I want him now, but will it last? If we push our friendship beyond its limit we could lose everything.

I'm not going to let that happen.

I take a deep breath, glance once more over John's prone form, clench my hands together, and leave his room.

This time, I go to mine and try to calm my mind so I can sleep.

I lay awake for several hours.

After settling into an uneasy slumber, I am awoken by an intense pounding in my head. I groan and roll over, trying to massage the pressure out of my temples. It doesn't work, so I flip my pillow around and burrow my head in its coolness. If I can just go back to sleep, then I can at least evade the pain for a while.

I drift in and out of a sleepy haze, clinging to the escape for as long as I can. I am completely unaware of what time it is, and I don't particularly care, either.

At some point I hear my phone buzz on the side table, indicating a new text.

"Shut up," I say, not moving.

What feels like minutes later, it buzzes again. I ignore it.

Unfortunately, John is not as strong a man as I. Not thirty seconds later he is there, knocking on my door.

"Sherlock?" he calls through. "Lestrade texted me; he says you're not answering your phone."

My head still hurts, so I don't answer John, either.

I hear him heave a sigh and then slowly my door opens. I do not move, keeping my head firmly pressed into my pillows.

John flicks on the light; I both hear the switch and see the brightness at the edge of my vision. I groan.

"Sherlock, we have to go in and give our statements. You said we would, remember?"

I turn my head just enough so I can glare at him. "I have a perfectly functional memory, thank you."

"Oh good, you can still speak." John's sarcasm is slightly uncalled for. "Come on, get dressed and let's go. The sooner we go, the sooner it's done. Plus it's nearly three in the afternoon; you've slept long enough."

"No I haven't," I say, pulling my sheet above my head.

I hear John sigh. Then, unexpectedly, my sheet is pulled down so my head and shoulders are revealed.

I open my mouth to complain, but I catch John's eye and the pain in my head fades. I decide, grudgingly, that it wouldn't be the _worst_ thing in the world to do what John wants.

"Fine." I narrow my eyes. "Leave."

John looks at me for a moment and then smiles before turning and walking out. I'm left confused. Why would John smile?

I ponder that as I get dressed, but I cannot come up with any satisfactory or reasonable answers, so I let it be. For the moment, at least.

I go out to the main room and find John in his chair, sipping at a cup of tea. He catches my eye as I enter and gestures to the table, where another cup is sitting, waiting for me.

Taking a seat, I reach for my drink and take a sip. It washes away all remaining pain in my head and I feel much better. I look back at John, but he's opened the paper and isn't paying me any more attention.

I focus on finishing my tea and place it on the table when I'm done.

"Ready to go?" John asks when he sees me set down my cup.

"Yes." I stand and go for my jacket, leaving the cup on the table without another thought. To my surprise, however, John does the same. Usually he cleans up after himself immediately.

I hesitate in the act of putting my arms through the sleeves. I open my mouth to ask, but then I realize how silly a question it is.

John sees, though, and his gaze follows mine to the table.

"What?"

Wordlessly, I shake my head.

"Sherlock?" There's a tone of defiance in his voice. John wants me to speak, regardless of how inconsequential the question is.

"You," I pause. "You left your cup. You usually clean it right away." I look away, slightly embarrassed. It shouldn't matter. But everything John does matters. When he breaks routine, it bothers me. It's like I _have_ to know his motivation for everything. This is troubling.

"You notice everything, don't you?" There's an edge to his tone that leads me to believe he's thinking of something other than the tea. Oh. His feelings. He really doesn't know that I know he's in love with me. Interesting.

"Usually, yes." I respond. I finish putting on my coat. "Ready?"

"I didn't realize you watch me so closely," John says, almost to himself, as he grabs his cup and goes to rinse it out. It isn't until he's in the kitchen that I realize he grabbed mine too.

"Neither did I." I say quietly. He doesn't hear me over the run of the water.

Once we're in the cab, I turn and look at John.

"John, earlier, why…" I don't know how to put what happened when he woke me up this morning into words. Luckily, I don't have to.

"What? When I made you wake up?" John smirks at me. "That's how we do things, isn't it? You're annoying, so I make some tea."

I don't know how to respond. It was more than that. The smile, the paper, the patience, and yes, the tea. It was…nice.

John was being nice.

This shouldn't surprise me. John is a very nice person. His kindness is one of the first things one notices about him.

What surprises me, I suppose, is how nice John was being after how rude I was.

I can't understand it, that type of affection being shown. It wasn't a romantic thing, it wasn't an "I love you and want you to love me back," it wasn't manipulation, it wasn't him searching for a favor or returning one. It was me being me, and John's response was to be _nice_.

_Still think he's like the others?_ I shake the thought from my head.

The cab arrives at Scotland Yard and John and I exit and head toward the building.

I stride through the entrance, John close behind. As we enter, Sally Donovan passes us in the hall. I catalogue her recent exploits but dismiss their importance.

"Still trailing after the freak, are you, John?" she sneers, addressing my companion. I stiffen but keep walking, attempting to ignore her. "He sure has got you whipped."

I hear the absence of John's footsteps and stop to turn back. He's staring at Donovan, a hard expression on his face.

"I am here by choice, Sally." I can tell John is straining to keep his voice polite. "And your suggestion that I am "whipped" implies a relationship between Sherlock and I that does not exist." Is that a trace of disappointment? It's there so quickly, I almost miss it. "You are an employed woman in a professional setting; please act like it."

I'm rather impressed by John's ability to be eloquent in such a situation. I almost tell John to hurry up, but then realize it would give credence to Donovan's earlier words. I wait.

There's a moment of silence while the two stare each other down. Then John gets annoyed and starts toward me.

"Let's go, Sherlock." I glance back at Donovan and smirk, showing with my expression that I know what she was doing last night. She at least has the good sense to blush and I turn away to follow John to Lestrade's office.

"There you two are!" He exclaims when we enter. "I texted you hours ago, Sherlock!"

"I was busy," I sniff, lifting my head. Out of the corner of my eye I see John grin, but he doesn't correct me.

"Well, I need your statements so I can get this processed. You can't deny you were both central to what happened."

"Why would I deny something like that, Lestrade?" I ask, reaching for a pen. John does at the same time, and our fingers brush slightly. We both jerk back. I feel as if a sudden shock has run down my arm. I clear my throat and continue addressing Lestrade, "Surely this must prove that it would be wise of you to consult me in every endeavor that comes your way."

I cautiously reach out and grab the pen. John waits until I've pulled back, and then he takes one, as well.

I glance up and see Lestrade looking at us curiously. He doesn't respond to my comment. I ignore him and grab the paper I need so I can start writing down what happened.

"Good thing I wrote the blog entry yesterday," John says good-naturedly, his hand moving steadily across the page. "I always remember the specifics better when I do that."

He seems to have gotten over the unexpected contact fairly quickly. I look over and John sees me and smiles. The corner of my mouth twitches in response and we both get back to writing our statements.

"You two need to get a room." Lestrade speaks up.

"We have one," I respond, not looking up. I hear John exhale in surprise.

"He doesn't mean that like you think," John says. Now I look up.

"We're in a room right now." I state. John rolls his eyes. My eyebrows crease in confusion. I am missing something.

"Lestrade was referring to… you know what, never mind."

I realize what John means and my face smooths over. "Oh." I turn to look at Lestrade. "Was that really necessary, Detective Inspector?" I recall John's earlier words. "You're an employed man in a professional setting; please act like it."

John lets out a short laugh in surprise and I grin to myself as I continue writing. Lestrade looks between the two of us and mutters, "_I'm_ the unprofessional one. Right."

"What was that?" I ask, faking politeness. I heard what he said perfectly well.

"Nothing. You almost finished?"

"Nearly," I write for another five minutes and then quickly rake my eyes over what I've said.

"Here." I hand my statement over to Lestrade and replace his pen.

"Thank you," he replies, taking it. I look over at John and, reading his writing upside-down, see that he's almost reached the end. We've done this many times before; it's no wonder it doesn't take us very long.

A minute later he's finished and he too hands his statement over and replaces his pen.

As we leave John nudges me with his elbow and says, "That wasn't so hard, now was it Sherlock?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I reply.

John just grins.


	7. It Only Takes A Spark

Chapter 7: It Only Takes A Spark

As we ride home there is an unexpected tension in the cab. Normally we're relaxed, even when we don't speak, but brushing Sherlock's hand in Lestrade's office caused a shift in our dynamic. I feel the distance between us like a physical pressure.

_Twelve inches_, my mind supplies. _Just twelve inches_.

Twelve inches is how far away Sherlock's hand is from mine.

A foot has never seemed so long.

I avoid looking at Sherlock. I don't know if I'll be able to hold myself back if I see his eyes. The desire to reach over is almost overwhelming.

"John," Sherlock's voice is deeper than normal. I feel my heart pick up in response. Great, now just his _voice_ is causing it. I'm going to expire from an overworked heart, I'm sure of it.

"Mmm?" I respond, tilting my head to indicate I'm listening but keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the window. I try to see what we're passing, but Sherlock's reflection is there. He leans toward me.

"I have a question." That's different. Usually Sherlock just asks when he has a question. This is almost like requesting permission.

"There's something the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know?" I tease, trying to diffuse the tension. If I let things get too serious I'm going to lose control, damn the consequences.

_You don't want to risk his friendship_, I remind myself. With that in mind, I allow my head to turn, staring into the currently light blue gaze.

Sherlock looks slightly relieved. "I'm not omniscient, John, you know that."

"Wait, give me a minute," I hold up my hand and then close my eyes, placing my fingers to my temples. "I need to commit that to memory – Sherlock admitting he's not all-knowing."

"Really, John, that is unnecessarily childish," Sherlock raises his eyebrows at me, but I see the smile in the crease of his eyes.

"What do you want to know, Sherlock?" I stop my antics, having successfully toned down the pressure in the cab to a bearable level.

"Do you really – " he cuts himself off abruptly. There's an unusual expression on his face. I can't place it.

He starts again. "Do you really have to wear such awful outfits when we leave the flat?" He gestures toward my perfectly acceptable brown jumper, thank you very much.

I know that's not the question he initially wanted to ask. "This is a normal article of clothing, Sherlock."

He rolls his eyes. "I need to send you to a tailor."

"Uh, no thanks," I'm slightly alarmed at the idea. I like being comfortable. I don't want to wear clothes so tight it looks like I can't breathe the way he does. Although… I would never tell him to stop dressing like that. It would be a shame if Sherlock ever stopped wearing clothes that strained across his chest.

I quickly get my head out of that train of thought. It's one thing to ponder these things when I'm alone in my room, quite another to do so in a cab with the ever-observant man sitting next to me.

There's still something wrong, though, part of that unnamed look in his eyes. I want to ask him what it is, what's bothering him. I want to ask what his real question was.

I don't.

We get to the flat without any more talk, and Sherlock surprises me by paying. I narrow my eyes and tilt my head at him, but he ignores me and glides smoothly to the front door.

Mrs. Hudson greets us as we enter, "Oh Sherlock, dear, and John! You've got a visitor, he said it was very important. Wouldn't accept that you two were gone."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock heads up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson keeps talking.

"He said he would wait as long as it took! I tried to keep him out, but young men can be so stubborn these days…" she trails off, winking at me, and I'm left slightly flustered and confused as she turns and goes back to her own flat.

I shake my head and then follow Sherlock's footsteps, taking the stairs two at a time.

When I enter the room I see Sherlock sitting opposite a young man who is on our couch, leaning forward and listening to him intently. The visitor is already speaking.

"…and so I came rushing back but by then it was too late. I called for help, but I don't have a mobile and so there was nothing I could do and it was burning, it was all burning." His voice gets caught in his throat and I realize he's trying not to cry. "She was in there, and it was burning, and there was nothing I could do… I tried to go in, I really did, but the front of the building had collapsed and I couldn't get through." I look at his hands and see several bad splinters. Not for lack of trying, apparently.

"Did firefighters arrive?" I ask.

He looks at me, noticing my presence for the first time. "Eventually, yes, but it was too late."

"What did they say was the cause?" Sherlock asks, folding his hands and looking over them attentively.

"An accident. Some rubbish about a stove gas leak. But that wasn't it, I know it wasn't! Someone killed her."

I head to the bathroom and get some antiseptic, tweezers, and something to wrap over his hands. When I come back Sherlock is still asking questions.

"Was there any reason why someone would want her dead?"

The boy shakes his head and adjusts willingly as I go and sit next to him on the couch.

"Give me your hands," I instruct. He lifts them tiredly, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock.

"How do you know it wasn't a gas leak?"

"We had an electric stove."

Sherlock actually laughs. "I knew the world was stupid, but really. This brings it to a whole new level."

"Sherlock," I caution. He glances at me and adopts a more serious expression, hearing and seeing the warning.

I look back to the boy. "Why didn't you get your hands checked earlier?"

He meets my eyes. "I didn't notice the pain." Shrug. "I just had to get here and find you two. I need to know what happened, catch who killed her. They all say he's," he jerks his head toward Sherlock, "the best."

"They would be right," Sherlock says, standing up and heading toward the window, looking out thoughtfully.

"Sorry if I missed something," I say, "but, where were you when the fire started?" I recall him saying something about "rushing back."

Our visitor meets my gaze and there's something in his eyes that I recognize. It's similar to what I saw every time I looked in the mirror after Sherlock's "death."

My hand starts trembling. Since Sherlock pointed it out, I now notice every time it happens. I clench my fingers to get it under control.

I glance up and Sherlock is staring at my hand. I can't read his expression.

The young man finally answers my question. His voice is wavering; he's near tears. "I went out to get the groceries. I was – it was," he gulps and seems to get a handle on himself. "It was her birthday, and I decided to do all her normal chores in addition to mine – you know, as a gift. I walked to get the shopping because I thought it would be good exercise and she would have some time to herself. If I had just taken a cab…" he doesn't seem able to speak anymore.

"Allow me to confirm the timeline," Sherlock says, stepping toward us and beginning to pace. "Yesterday morning you woke up on your girlfriend's birthday and began to do chores. Around mid-morning you went out to get the shopping, which is about a thirty minute walk." Sherlock glances to check he's right, but he doesn't pause long enough for the young man to speak.

"As you return you see flames and walk faster. When you realize it is your building that is on fire you drop your groceries and run, yelling for someone to call the police and fire brigade. They arrive about twenty minutes later; during that time you attempt to enter the residence. This causes the wounds Doctor Watson has tended to for you." Sherlock meets my gaze when he says "Doctor Watson," and his eyes are bright.

"You stay while the firemen perform their duties in putting out the blaze, waiting and hoping for any sign that your girlfriend could be alive. After several hours of work and searching, she is confirmed dead. It is now very late in the evening. You spend a sleepless night in a hotel and as soon as you are able, you endeavor to try and find out the fire's origins. When they give you the news you attempt to argue, but no one will listen. You spend several hours trying but then decide it is useless. That is when you elect to consult me and my associate. Does that all sound about right?"

A tear runs down the young man's face, and he nods slowly.

"You better watch your hands for infection," I say, concerned after hearing Sherlock's timeline that he let them go so long untreated. "You should probably go to the hospital, actually."

"I don't care about my hands!" he snaps. Sherlock takes a warning step toward us, but I subtly wave him off.

"You should." I say gently. "You need to be healthy in case we need your help in solving this. You do want us to solve it, don't you?"

He doesn't reply, but I know he's listening.

Sherlock looks like he's about to argue, but I shake my head at him slightly.

I take the young man's arms and help him up from the couch, leading him to the door. "I want you to go get yourself checked out." I say firmly, keeping my grip on his arms. "Sherlock and I will go over the details of the case, and we'll contact you."

We're at the door now. Our visitor nods, his shoulders curving in protectively. I let go of his arms. "Good."

He pauses as he leaves, his eyes darting from the floor to my face, and then back to the floor. "I-uh, thank you." He glances quickly at Sherlock, and then back down. "Both of you."

"You're welcome." I give him a small smile. He nods again and then turns and leaves. Once I hear the bottom door close, I shut our door and head over to sit in my chair.

"You don't really think we need _him_ to solve this, do you, John?" Sherlock asks, his tone one of distaste. He's pacing again, the energy of a new case making him jittery.

"No, Sherlock, of course not," I say, leaning back and closing my eyes. I got up this morning at a relatively normal time, but I'm still exhausted. "I just said that to make sure he would go take care of himself. Surely you know that."

Sherlock doesn't reply, just keeps pacing. I don't take offense. He's thinking, obviously.

I keep my eyes closed as I speak again, "Did I have another night terror last night?"

I sense Sherlock stop. I wait.

"Yes," his voice is very low.

I sigh. No wonder I feel so tired. "What did you do?"

There's a moment of silence before Sherlock speaks. "Nothing. I went upstairs when you yelled, said your name, got hit on the leg, waited until you calmed down, and left."

I rub my hands over my eyes. "That doesn't sound like, 'nothing,' Sherlock." Then I process everything he said. "Wait. 'Hit on the leg'? Did I hit you?"

"It was my fault," I hear Sherlock drop himself into his chair across from me. "I was too close."

This makes me open my eyes and sit up. Sherlock is eyeing me speculatively. "I really hit you? I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I knew there was danger. I didn't leave enough distance," Sherlock's voice sounds strange as he says this. "I put myself within reach."

"Oh," I respond lamely.

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he looks at me. "I still think my idea has merit."

"What idea – no, Sherlock. We're not discussing this. Obviously it's a bad idea – I've already hit you once!"

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. "You're not going to be able to change my mind about this, so don't even try."

His mouth twists into a pout, but I know his tricks. I refuse to yield. I match his glare, not backing down.

We stare at each other for nearly a minute. I can feel my heart rate increase at the prolonged scrutiny, but I refuse to be distracted.

I look more closely. Sherlock's pulse seems elevated, as well. Is he getting angry? He has no right to be. I'm the one suffering, not him. I can get over it on my own, thanks.

Well, maybe I can't. I didn't get over Afghanistan on my own, after all. Sherlock did that.

Am I actually considering it? No. I look away from Sherlock and narrow my eyes at the coffee table instead. He fixed me by giving me action and danger. I don't need the calmness of his presence.

Do I?

As I'm (reluctantly) considering this, Sherlock speaks. "I'm getting headaches."

I look back at him and tilt my head to the side. "I'm sorry?" What does he want me to do?

Sherlock leans back, pressing the tips of his fingers together. "You're the doctor. Fix me."

"Sherlock," I sigh, exasperated. "There can be many causes for headaches. For you it's most likely the complete disregard for taking care of your body. Maybe if you ate and slept on a regular schedule, this wouldn't happen."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I don't want a lecture, John. I want an antidote."

"Did you take some paracetamol?"

"No. Usually I just find you. But that's not always convenient."

I open my mouth to reply, but I'm perplexed. I didn't know about his headaches until just now. How was finding me helping him before?

"You mean like, you've found me now and are asking for help?"

"No, John," Sherlock speaks slowly, enunciating each syllable. "I mean, whenever my head hurt, I found you."

"So… you're head doesn't hurt now, does it?"

"No."

I really am awful at following Sherlock's train of thought. "Then why did you bring it up?"

"Because based on the current pattern, it will begin to hurt again, and I wish to avoid that." He looks at me like it should be obvious. Well, of course it is to him! I can't be expected to read his mind.

"Well, we have some over-the-counter medicine."

"I don't want to take medicine, John."

_Then what does he want?_ "Then what do you want? I'm not magic – being a doctor doesn't mean I can just say 'expelliarmus' and you're suddenly healed."

"Expelliarmus?"

"Pop culture, sorry, you wouldn't understand."

Sherlock glares. "I'm not as ignorant as you would lead people to believe."

"No, you're only as ignorant as you choose to be. Which leaves you with quite a surprising gap in general knowledge."

"Boring." Sherlock closes his eyes and tilts back his head.

I'm at a loss. What was the point of this conversation? All it's done is left me as confused as ever. And made me realize that even when I'm frustrated, I find him to be gorgeous.

_Stop it, Watson. You're happy just being his friend._

I really am. But I can't just stop myself from admiring the view. And he's giving me a good one, throwing his head back and revealing the full length of his neck.

I stand up. "Right. I'm going to get some air."

"Why?" Sherlock's head rises quickly and his eyes sweep up and down my body, deducing. "You're not angry."

"No, I'm not angry. I just need some air."

"There's air in here."

"Too thick," I mutter. As I cross the doorway I say, louder, "Won't be gone long. Text me if you need me."

I'm only gone about ten minutes when my phone buzzes. I shake my head and read the message.

_I need you. SH_

I ignore the way this makes me feel. It's classic Sherlock manipulation, that's all.

My body is not convinced.

_For what? JW_

I try to think of things other than Sherlock while I wait for a reply, but I can't. No surprise there. What does surprise me is where my thoughts go in that regard. They're not in the present, not trying to piece together his strange behavior. No, they're in the past, recalling conversations we had regarding the time apart.

"_Weren't you thinking of how I would suffer, though, Sherlock?"_

"_My _point_ is that you took everything we shared and reduced it to dust."_

"_I thought that I wasn't a good enough friend to show you your life was worth living."_

"_I had to watch you fall thinking _it was entirely my fault!_" _

"_You can't just _erase_ that guilt."_

I blink and try to stop. I don't want to think about what it was like having Sherlock gone. I don't want to think about how mad I was when he returned, either, after I got over the initial shock. But I've just realized something, an egregious oversight.

I never told Sherlock I missed him. I told him many other things, particularly about how much he hurt me. But that was the focus of those conversations. My feelings of betrayal and anger.

Missing is too tender. It implies weakness. I didn't leave it out on purpose, but perhaps subconsciously I thought Sherlock wouldn't want to hear it. He's certainly not one for feelings.

My phone buzzes again. I check.

_Headache. SH_

I frown.

_Take some medicine. JW_

This reply comes much faster.

_I don't need medicine. I just need you. SH_

Well. He didn't used to be one for feelings.

He is not making this "just friends" thing any easier. If I didn't know better – oh, and how I know better – I would say he is entertaining some kind of feelings for me, too. But Sherlock has never understood social norms, and he's certainly never had a friend like me before. He doesn't know what appropriate and inappropriate behavior is.

This crazy man is the one I missed for so long.

Great, now I feel bad. One, I laid a lot of guilt on Sherlock about his fall without telling him the kinder things. Two, apparently I am currently acting as some sort of headache relief and he needs me back.

_Fine. Be there soon. JW_

I stuff my phone back in my pocket and return to Baker Street. The brief walk did my head some good, but I can't get over the feeling that I need to tell him I missed him. We have, for the most part, put it behind us and continued on as normal. But perhaps the words need to be said.

I get to the landing and open the door to find Sherlock sprawled over the couch, his right arm thrown dramatically over his head. The lights are off and curtains drawn. I close the door softly behind me.

"Sherlock?" I say quietly.

His head turns and he opens one eye to look at me. After a moment the corner of his mouth twitches.

"Better," is all he says, closing his eye and exhaling deeply.

I take a step toward him. "Sherlock, I, uh, I need to tell you something."

This catches his attention. He sits up and looks at me. "Yes?"

"Well, I realized that in all the time you've been back, there's one thing I neglected to say to you." I look away, uncomfortable opening up this way. I'm a man. We don't just…share feelings. Not like this, without reason or cause.

Sherlock's face is blank as he waits for me to continue. I stare at the floor.

"So, ah, I'm going to say it now. I missed you, Sherlock." I glance at him briefly, and then look away again. "In a way, that's another reason I was so upset when you came back. I missed your company, your companionship. I felt guilty and angry and all the other things I've mentioned before, but I, um, I also felt broken."

I feel pressure behind my eyes. Seriously? I did not intend to get emotional. I thought I was doing this for _him_. It would counterbalance all the not-so-nice things I said (or did). I didn't realize it could also be closure for me.

"Broken. Yeah, you know, because all… all the parts of me that I had put into the relationship were gone."

I wait, looking anywhere but Sherlock. He's quiet for so long, though, that I chance a glance. He seems stunned.

I clear my throat. "Well, ah, that was it. I thought you should know, because I know I said a lot of things, but I never said…that."

Finally, Sherlock speaks. "I…missed you too, John." A weight lifts that I didn't even realize I had been carrying. "There were times – well, there were times when I would turn, intending to speak to you, and then I would be…" he pauses, searching for the right word. "…disappointed when you were not there."

We're both quiet for a bit, avoiding each other's eyes.

"Yes, well, good," I stammer, glancing up just as he does. Our gazes lock.

"I owe you a thousand apologies, John." Sherlock says seriously.

"No, it's – no. You're here now, right? That's what matters. Anyway," I cast my mind around for a subject change. "We best get on with that fire case, hmm?"

Sherlock smiles. "Yes, let's. Now, here's what we know…"

As Sherlock speaks I go and sit next to him on the couch. He moves over to leave me room, and together we lean over the notes he must have made while I was out.

Our knees brush as we go over the details, but neither of us pulls away.


	8. A Shift In Perspective

**A/N: I apologize for a rather delayed update. I had a huge project due in one of my classes and I knew if I worked on this I wouldn't get that finished in time. (If you care, I think I did really well, but I won't find out for sure for a couple more days.) Enjoy!**

Chapter 8: A Shift In Perspective

"What?" I snap into my phone after reading Lestrade's name on the front. "I'm rather busy at the moment."

I actually am. I'm standing in front of another burning building. It's dark, and the flames are stunningly bright against the night sky. A second boyfriend is standing to the side, talking with John. There are firefighters all around us, making quite a racket.

Lestrade says something, but I can't understand him.

"Speak up!" I command, searching for a quieter spot. I don't find one, so I just frown angrily and put my other hand up to block my ear. "What do you want?"

"Are you at that fire?" I finally hear what he's asking.

"No, I'm out getting coffee. Of course I'm at the fire!" Honestly.

"Sherlock, you don't have permission to be there!"

"I don't have permission to go on a walk?" I ask. Technically, that's all John and I had been doing. We saw reports of a new fire on the news and just happened to fancy a walk along the same street. Everyone is rushing about anyway; I didn't even have to use the badge I nicked off Lestrade.

"You bloody well know you weren't just going on a walk. Are you going to try to tell me this is a murder?"

"I don't have to – apparently you already know. Why did you call me? And for that matter, how did you know I was here?"

"I saw you on the news during a camera pan. And I called to tell you it's _not_ a murder, and you need to leave that area immediately."

I roll my eyes. John is still in conversation with the boyfriend. "Two fires, not three days apart. Two boyfriends absolutely devastated to realize they've left their girlfriends alone only to end up burned to death. It's no coincidence, Inspector."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"I could just say it's a hunch, but I can tell you want further proof. Fine. Both fires started very quickly and spread rapidly to burn _everything_ around them – if I got my hands on something contaminated, I could confirm my hypothesis that it's the same fuel used in both. Both happened when the boyfriends were out, so for whatever reason the killer is targeting the women. Also the official cause of each fire is rubbish."

Lestrade's silent on the other end for a while. I consider hanging up on him, but instead just bask in my triumph. There's not much I can do right now anyway – I tried questioning the boyfriend, but he was too hysterical to be of any use. That's why John's with him; trying to calm him down.

"We're headed down there. Don't leave."

"Don't count on it." I hang up without waiting for a reply. I go back to John and the boyfriend.

John looks up at me as I reach them. His eyes are tired, but it's not just from the fire. He's been sleeping poorly. He hasn't had a true night terror for the past two nights, but I've heard him tossing and turning.

"Lestrade?" he asks, nodding his head toward my phone.

"Yes. Have you got anything else?" I glance quickly at the boyfriend, but he's obviously not paying us any attention. He's staring at the flames in the building, tears streaming down his face.

I feel a strange empathy for this boy. If John was being burned…no, best not think about that.

John sighs. "No. It's too soon after – you saw what the first one was like. And that was after he had had some time. This… no one's going to get anything useful from him like this."

"You're right." I groan. "Does no one have any information?"

Several of the firefighters glance in my direction, but I ignore them. They wouldn't really know anything; they're still trying to put out the flames.

I turn to face John more directly. "How close do you think I could get to the fire before someone stopped me?"

It takes John a moment to realize I'm serious. "Wha – Sherlock, no. That's not going to happen."

"But I need a closer look! There _has_ to be something tying these murders together, there just has to be." I pivot in anger and start pacing in a tight, three-step line. "Fire is smart; it burns away most of the evidence. Why are they targeting the girlfriends? What's the link? How would they know the boyfriends would be gone long enough? I need more data!"

"Sherlock, calm down. We can't really do much else right now."

"I know, John, that's why I'm agitated! If this is a serial killer, we need to answer these questions."

John is stricken. "You think this could be a serial killer?"

I shrug, still pacing. "I can't know. The crimes are too similar. But there's only been two – not necessarily enough to say "serial." If the girls have a certain kind of connection, maybe it's only them. Revenge on the family, that type of thing." I wave my hand in a noncommittal gesture.

There's too many questions, not enough data. I need more to go on, I need more to look at. These crimes are shaping up to be very interesting, indeed. But right now I have too little, and my brain is racing. Too many variables, options, possibilities, alternatives… my mind is trying to calculate them all, and it's beginning to _hurt_.

I stop moving, frowning. I know this is going to be fun, brilliant even, once I get my hands on some evidence and have a less hysterical witness. But right now, at this exact moment, it is just overwhelming.

"John." I say. He immediately takes a step closer and tilts his head to look me in the eye. John has learned to recognize that voice. It's my headache tone. Apparently the only thing that helps is him.

I look down, my eyes sweeping over his face, taking in the stress of the situation and the lack of sleep and the tenderness of love before looking directly into his eyes.

John still doesn't know that I know he's in love with me. I see it everywhere now – I find it hard to believe it took me so long to figure it out before. It's written in the lines of his face, obvious from his body language, overflowing from his eyes when he looks at me. I almost can't take it, that level of emotion.

But I know I'm starting to feel the same way. My physical reactions refuse to abate, and now I have this headache issue that is troubling. I've never felt so protective of and connected to someone before. To have someone so close to me that they can read the nuances of my voice and know what I need – it's foreign to me. I don't know what to do.

I do know I don't want to lose it.

As I look into John's eyes, the pain in my head settles down. There are still too many questions for it to be eliminated completely, but he has certainly helped.

He must see the tension leave me, because he smiles and asks, "Better?"

"Yes, thank you." I quirk a smile at him and look back toward the burning building. The flames have gone down considerably, so at least the firemen know what they are doing.

"Do you think we should stick around?" John asks, following my gaze. I watch the patterns the dying flames make, casting long shadows and giving the whole scene a menacing look.

"Lestrade will be here shortly," I respond, although that doesn't really answer his question.

"Do you want to talk to him?"

"Probably useless." My eyes flicker to John as I scan the rest of the area, and I notice him shiver. I look more closely. Yes, he's definitely cold. We're not near enough to the fire to feel its heat anymore, since they've killed most of it.

I myself am quite toasty. I reach up and take off my scarf, lean over, and wrap it around John's neck. Then I put my gloved hands in my pockets and look around again, trying to see if there is anyone who can give me more information. I see frantic running and silently flashing fire engines. I hear the loud spray of water as they beat down the flames and watch the puddles form on the black street. What I don't find is a person who could be _helpful_, and I'm too far away to see anything that could be evidence.

John lifts up the end of the scarf. "Uh, why?"

"You are cold," I reply, still searching. "I am not."

"Oh, well…thanks, Sherlock." There's a true tone of surprise mixed in with the gratitude. Hmm. Perhaps this is not something regular flatmates do for each other? That seems silly; if John gets sick I would have to take care of him, and that would be tedious.

Just then I spot Lestrade. He walks up, thankfully followed by an officer who is not Sally Donovan.

"There you two are!" Lestrade exclaims as he approaches. "So, what's happening?"

"There was a fire," I gesture at the building. "At least one casualty, no cause given for certain but the 'official' story is misuse of candles."

"Candles?" Lestrade is skeptical. I'm glad he also finds this ridiculous.

"Yes, candles. Apparently they had quite a lot of them. It was suggested she was preparing a romantic night, lit most of their candles, and somehow it got out of control. Freak accident."

"But you disagree."

"Indeed, Inspector. Too many coincidences. Someone is setting these fires on purpose."

Lestrade nods and looks to John for the first time. John was listening to our conversation but is still looking toward the building. When we go silent he turns to us.

"D'you think you could find someone with more information?" John asks Lestrade. Lestrade opens his mouth to reply, but then notices my scarf around John's neck.

"Is that – are you wearing Sherlock's scarf?"

John glances down like he has to check. "Yes. Problem?" He looks back at Lestrade.

I'm strangely proud at his unruffled tone. There's not even a blush.

"You two aren't…" Lestrade trails off, obviously uncertain as to what this means but unwilling to just come out and ask.

"Nope," John half smiles at Lestrade. "You keep asking, Lestrade, and the answer never changes. I'm starting to see what Sherlock means when he says repetition is boring."

I turn my head away to hide my smile.

"Right," Lestrade clears his throat. "Well, it looks like we're not going to get much more information here right now."

"My thoughts exactly." My hands start to leave my coat to reach for John, and I have to consciously tell them to stay. "I think John and I will be going now."

"Very well," Lestrade nods, now scanning the area like I had. "Will you tell me if you learn anything more?"

I want to refuse, but I know if I promise to do so then Lestrade is more likely to extend the same to me. "I'll text you. And you'll contact me?"

"Yes" Lestrade sighs. "After all, the first guy went to you. You're definitely involved."

"Good. John?"

"Ready when you are," John affirms. I nod and the two of us leave the site.

As we walk, I ask, "Did you get his contact information?" That was another reason I had John talking to the boyfriend.

He nods. "Yes. This one does have a mobile; he was just gone longer than the last, so he was too late when he called for help. But he promised to talk to us later."

"Wonderful." We have a couple of blocks of walking before we get to an area where we can catch a cab. "What are your thoughts on what's happening?"

John is quiet while he contemplates. "Well, if it _is_ a serial killer it's a very dangerous one, because he – or she, I suppose – doesn't seem to care if they kill someone other than their intended target. A fire, once started, is hard to control. Um… I think it's interesting that it's only the women, but I have no idea why they're the victims. What do _you_ think?"

"I have too many thoughts – we'd be up all night if I went over all of them. That's why I need more data. I am, however, leaning toward serial killer. Can't say exactly why." There hasn't been any hard evidence or enough details to lead me to believe it is a serial killer, but I have this feeling in my gut that it is.

I'm actually feeling tired. I never feel tired during a case, but the nature of this case is leaving me mentally exhausted. And since I've been going over the first murder's details repeatedly since we got them three days ago, I haven't spent very much time in bed.

Normally I'm able to ignore the needs of my body, especially when it comes to sleep, but once the details come out I'm not going to be spending much time asleep at all, so perhaps it would be smart to get some now. I know it would make John happy if I got some rest.

That could be another reason I'm feeling tired – I've been dealing with emotions that usually don't trouble me. Since emotional responses are both mental and physical, they've been taking a toll my body is unused to. Holding myself back, like earlier when I had the instinct to reach for John, is turning out to be more work than I anticipated.

We find a main road and I throw my arm out to hail a cab. I let John get in before me and he gives our address to the cabbie as we settle into our seats. John doesn't seem to have anything to say at the moment, so I go back to my thoughts.

In the past when I've been attracted to someone, it's been very easy to refuse myself and ignore it. It certainly is a weakness, and since no one has ever been really good for me, it was simple to convince myself it's not worth it. With John, though, it's much more than mere attraction, and there's undeniable truth that he _has_ been good for me. Never before has the object of my desire been so naturally suited to me.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He is the epitome of strength and warmth in my life. I trust him explicitly. To me, that emotional attraction is far more important that any physical one. But I can't deny that I am physically attracted to John, as well. I find our difference in height adorable, quite frankly, although I know appearance is deceiving. He's strong. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. Would he take control? I think I would want him to, since I have no experience in that area.

Kissing has always seemed slightly distasteful to me, unsanitary, but now I am fascinated by John's mouth. I watch as his tongue pokes out to wet his lips, and I have a very strange urge to lean over and taste them.

I blink. What is that? I haven't ever wanted to do that. Not in so clear of terms, at least.

This is all far too distracting. Although, at this moment, this distraction is a welcome one. I'm not stuck in a whirlwind of theories all vying for affirmation without proof. Instead I can just focus on John, on his calming presence. I study his profile as the cab drives along. He may notice my staring, but it's not unusual for me, so if he does he doesn't say anything.

He's actually quite muscular. He doesn't wear clothes to show it, but the army and now running around London with me has kept John Watson in very good shape. At the same time, he's rounder than I am. While I'm all edges and points, John seems softer and steadier. I flash back to the few times I've hugged him. Yes, he feels good to hold.

I am tired. I've lost a little control on my thoughts – I wouldn't be letting them go like this if I wasn't running on so little sleep. But taking my thoughts this direction… taking them away from "we can't" and "how could it be possible" and putting them toward "if we did" and "how well it would work"… this is soothing. This is a welcome distraction.

And maybe… just maybe, if it became a true outlet and not just a figment of my mind…maybe if John and I _were_ together, I could stop worrying and thinking about it all the time. It would be beneficial as opposed to detrimental.

The cab finally arrives back at Baker Street. We get out and I pay the fare. John goes to open the front door as I do so, but then he waits for me in doorway. I realize that's different than what I do – when I make John pay, I just head up without pause. It's not that I'm trying to leave him behind; I just know he'll follow. John is always waiting for me.

Perhaps our relationship is slightly unbalanced.

As John and I climb the stairs my mind goes back to the thoughts that started in the cab.

The only issue in a relationship with John would be if he expects me to put him before my work. I'm not saying that I would ignore him – although, I suppose I would, at times… but I do that now, and he still loves me – what I am saying is that he can't expect me to give up what I do and how I do it for our relationship. I have my way of working, and he would need to be accepting of that.

_He is_, I realize, examining our partnership up to this point. _He's a part of your work, not separate from it. Adding that facet of your relationship would just make everything more interesting._

John certainly does make most things more interesting. It's perplexing, actually, how such a seemingly ordinary man can contain so much below the surface. I watch him as he follows routine and heads to make a cup of tea. _Ordinary, reliable John._ _Why do you fascinate me so?_

I shed my jacket and lay on the couch, pursuing my thoughts further.

My insecurity is still present. I continue to find it difficult to believe John feels the way my analysis indicates. I can see that he does love me – I can't see _why_. And if he's fooled himself, if he sees me differently than I am… there are still ways that he can love me without loving _me_.

But if he does love _me_… if he accepts me, faults and all, wouldn't it be worth it? I wouldn't have to change. Well, I would, but it would be very similar to how I changed when he became my friend. He fit in seamlessly, and where I adjusted it was mostly unconsciously done. Shouldn't a romantic relationship with John act in the same way?

What do people even do in such a relationship that is different from a friendship? There are the physical aspects, yes, and I am open to that with John. In some ways, one could even say eager. But beyond that… I make a list in my head:

_Living together._ Well, we already do that.

_Sharing expenses._ Interesting. We do that too.

_Eating together._ We've done that since the beginning.

_Sharing feelings._ Hm. We don't do that very often, but sometimes our conversations include it. Example: the "missing" exchange John instigated a couple of days ago.

_Encouragement in vocational and personal endeavors._ If John joining me in my work isn't encouragement, then I don't know what is.

_Going out on dates. _Define date. From what I've seen, the only difference between what John and I do and what constitutes a date is, once again, the physical contact.

_Having interests that differ outside the relationship._ John has the surgery and sporadically goes drinking – I'm not interested in that. I have my personal experiments, in which John has little to no involvement. We definitely don't spend every single moment together.

Hmm… I see why people assume we're a couple. After all, we do everything but sleep together, and people can't actually know what happens within the walls of our flat. The only difficulty I anticipate would be opening up – communicating to each other more often and about more topics. I'd need to share my feelings.

I grimace, but in honesty, that would be worth it.

I hear John's footsteps as he comes out of the kitchen and I open my eyes. Yes, he's carrying two cups. I sit up and accept mine with a nod of thanks.

John surprises me slightly by sitting next to me on the couch, but he grabs his laptop as he takes a sip of tea, so he doesn't expect me to talk to him. There's just over six inches between us, and I have to fight the urge to close the distance.

The physical aspect would change, but if anything that would be easier than what I'm doing now. I'd just stop holding myself back all the time.

That would be a relief.

And I cannot deny that John has more experience than I in that area. I would let him lead, and communicate anything that makes me uncomfortable.

Is this the point we've reached? Do I really want to pursue a romantic relationship with John?

Yes. I do.

But first: could I lose him? Could this damage what we currently have?

Well… if it doesn't work out. If it turns out we aren't compatible in that way, it may not be possible to take the step back. But John's already in love with me. He may decide he can't handle not having the feelings returned, and then he will start dating again, and maybe he'll find a woman who can accept me as his friend, and they get married, and then he'll leave.

I shake my head. That would be worse, I think, than trying and not working. Then we would never know. But if we talk about it, then even if a relationship doesn't work we still have the foundation of our friendship. It's a very firm foundation; if faking my death didn't break it, then I don't think a failed romantic relationship could do so, either.

But I don't think it will fail. If there's anyone in the world suited to be my life partner, it's John Watson. Now, I don't know what fulfillment he finds from me, other than the excitement and danger, but he sees reasons worth staying.

We have to talk about it. That's the only way. I need to know if John really loves _me_. Because if he does… what are we waiting for?


	9. Talking With the Holmes Brothers

**A/N: I would like to take a moment to thank my new beta-reader Adam. He wouldn't let me interrupt him while he was reading this chapter, so I hope you all feel the same!**

Chapter 9: Talking With the Holmes Brothers

Sherlock has been acting…odd.

And not his normal odd, mind you. I mean, he's been his usual in regard to the case. We tried calling the second boyfriend today, but his mobile was off. I had to interrupt Sherlock's tactless message, so hopefully the guy accepts my apologies and calls us back.

Then he called Lestrade and got annoyed when he didn't have any more information. I recall the accusations "enabling a serial killer" and "worthless." That was unpleasant, but not worth stepping in.

So, yes, he's done that. But he's Sherlock. That's expected behavior.

No, the odd I mean is more like… off. Different.

I know that doesn't explain it very well. I'll try to give some examples, but really, it's just the overarching sense that things are strange. Changing.

So, for instance, sometimes Sherlock will look at me and open his mouth like he wants to say something. I'll look back expectantly, and then he'll narrow his eyes, shake his head, and turn away. If I try to ask him about it, he ignores me.

Weird, right?

And last night I joined some fellows at the bar for a pint (I was gone about two hours), and he didn't complain once. I didn't even get a text.

That sounds clingy. It's not a big deal when Sherlock doesn't text me. But, as I said, it's _different_. And when Sherlock acts different, it means something's up.

I want to, you know, ask someone, but no one is going to be able to tell me what's going on. I know Sherlock the best out of everyone. If I can't figure it out, who could? Only Sherlock knows what's going on in his head, and he won't answer my questions. No one thinks the way he does.

Well…I put my head in my hands as I come to this realization.

_Mycroft does. They see the world in a similar way._

I sigh. I don't want to talk to Mycroft. Sherlock and I are grown men; we should be able to figure this out on our own.

As I come to this decision, my phone buzzes with a text. I assume it's Sherlock – he's popped out to the morgue to get something for an experiment since we haven't been able to get any information – and open it without looking at the name.

_What seems to be bothering you, Doctor Watson?_

Mycroft.

Really, though, I should expect mind-reading behaviors from the Holmes brothers by this point. I'm honestly surprised I've been able to keep my feelings for Sherlock secret for so long.

_When in my life is it ever anything but your brother, Mycroft?_ I send the message without thinking, only realizing exactly how it sounds after I commit to pressing the button.

I groan and have the instinct to just throw my phone in the toilet and pretend it never happened so I don't have to have this conversation. Instead, I put my phone in my pocket and go to make some tea, thinking I'm going to need it.

It buzzes again and I prepare myself for a long message. I'm surprised to see:

_Unlock your door._

Seriously? Mycroft actually came to the flat to speak with me? He didn't send some lackey to drive me miles away?

I unlock the door and there's the man himself, umbrella and all.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Watson," Mycroft says pleasantly.

I'm not quite as polite. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't otherwise react to my blunt tone. "You said that something about my brother is bothering you. I'm merely here to help."

I'm not impressed. "Right. Thanks for that, see you later." I gesture toward the door.

Mycroft ignores me, of course. He sits in Sherlock's chair. I take the hint and drop into mine, taking a sip of my tea and pointedly looking away from him.

I wait for Mycroft to speak first. This seems like a conversation I really should be having just with Sherlock, but I've never been able to influence either of them to do things my way. Why start now?

"You and my brother are very close," Mycroft finally begins, tapping his umbrella lightly on the floor.

I restrain my desire to curse and just nod shortly. I thought they didn't like to state the obvious?

"And there has been a shift in your relationship, has there not?"

I shrug but turn to look Mycroft in the eye. I wasn't a soldier for nothing.

He stares at me, but I keep my face blank.

"Do you think that, perhaps, you should stop telling yourself you are alone?"

"I don't tell myself I'm alone." I say, setting down my tea. "I have a flatmate, after all."

"Much more than just a flatmate, wouldn't you agree?"

"I suppose." I narrow my eyes. "Are you just here to ask questions?"

Mycroft's lips tilt in a half smile that makes me want to punch him. "I'm merely opening you up to the thoughts you don't want to have. Tell me, Doctor Watson," Mycroft leans closer, "Do you know how many relationships Sherlock has had in the past?"

I'm curious, desperately so, but I don't think it's right to be getting this information from his brother. If Sherlock wanted me to know about his past relationships, he would tell me.

"If that was my business, I would know already, wouldn't I?"

"Sherlock sees so many things, he doesn't often have to talk about them." Mycroft says smoothly. "Just because you don't know doesn't mean he hasn't made it your business."

I'm trying to follow his logic as he continues to speak. "How many rejections would it take for you, Doctor Watson, to start preemptively denying anyone access? How many times would you allow yourself to hurt before you closed yourself off completely? Caring is not an advantage."

"Then why are you here?" I snap, standing up. "I don't see why you would bother if you didn't care about your brother at least a little."

"I said it wasn't an advantage. I didn't say it's completely avoidable," Mycroft looks at the umbrella dangling between his fingers. "You care, though, don't you?"

"Of course I care. He's my best friend." I take a couple of steps away, wanting to put distance between the two of us.

"Then why are you lying to him?"

"I'm not – " I begin, my voice rising, but then I hear footsteps in the hallway.

I turn in time to see Sherlock reach the landing, holding a container that looks suspiciously like body parts. He pauses, taking in the scene in front of him: me, angry, standing in the middle of the room; Mycroft, calm, twirling his umbrella absently while sitting in Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock meets my eyes and raises an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes and then narrow them, crossing my arms.

He smiles slightly and then goes to the kitchen to place his body parts in the fridge.

"I believe you've overstayed your welcome, dear brother," he calls to Mycroft.

I glance back at Mycroft, who is looking at me with interest. I glare at him, and he smiles.

"Perhaps you are right," he stands slowly, his eyes going to Sherlock as he re-enters the room. "I believe you and Doctor Watson have a lot to talk about."

"Hmph!" I snort, looking toward the ground. Sherlock's gaze darts to me before he returns it to his brother.

"John and I are fine, but _thank_ you for your concern." Sherlock says sarcastically, motioning a hand toward the door. This time, Mycroft gets up to leave.

He turns to me just as he's about to exit. "I'd watch your trousers for flames, John." And with a small smirk, he's gone.

_Liar, liar, pants on fire_, I think, getting his reference.

Sherlock goes to the window, watching for a moment before coming back to stand in front of me. I assume he made sure Mycroft really left.

"Is there something you want to talk about, John?" he asks me, his eyes sweeping my face.

I debate with myself for only a moment. _Friendship_.

"No, I don't think so. Unless you want to talk about how fed up I am with your brother."

"I empathize completely," Sherlock gives me a small smile, but he seems to be thinking of something else.

"John, I don't mean to keep pushing the subject," he pauses, watching me. I'm not sure where he's taking this. "But you still aren't sleeping well. I believe my idea has merit. Why don't you?"

I shrug, the fight (and my anger) gone. I break eye contact and go back to my seat. It's true, I am exhausted, but I don't think pushing our friendship that way would do anything good, since Sherlock cannot possible feel toward me the way I feel toward him.

Although he has been acting off…And Mycroft said something about "preemptively denying access"… No, hoping this way is just cruel. I'm torturing myself.

Sherlock can see my unwillingness to talk about it. He sits in his chair across from me, and after Mycroft it is an especially welcome sight.

"What if I told you it would help me?" he queries after a moment of thought. I stare at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?" I ask. This isn't a tactic I expected him to take.

"Well, you're privy to my headaches," Sherlock taps his head with one long finger. "When you're asleep, sometimes I have to spend hours dealing with the pain. If I was present, then perhaps you would sleep better and my head would not bother me quite so much. Win-win."

"You can't know that it would work like that, though," I am trying very hard _not_ to think of Sherlock with me in my bed, and failing miserably. I can already feel my heart pick up pace.

"You can't know that it _won't_," Sherlock counters, smiling knowingly now that he's got the conversation started. I refused to talk about it before because I knew his logic would win over mine. He's a tricky one.

He leans forward, his bright eye pinning me to my seat. "Why, John? Why don't you want to try to get better?"

Oh, God, that look. He knows. Does he know? He has to know.

I want to look away. I try, but I can't. Sherlock's gaze has me trapped.

"I-I don't. I just…" I lick my lips, trying to find the words. "It's not appropriate."

Sherlock leans back, an amused expression on his face. I myself am not amused. My heart is beating much too quickly, and I'm beginning to feel closed-in. I need to get some air.

"John, are you under the impression that I would be joining you in your bed?" Sherlock is still smiling. If I thought my heart was beating too quickly before, I was mistaken. Now it is _racing_.

"I – ah." I don't know what to say. "You weren't?"

"My original intent was just to be present. Sitting in a chair, perhaps. Just there, so you would know that I am still alive and well." He leans back, getting more casual, but there's a glint of fire in his eyes that's normally only present when he's working on a particularly difficult case.

"Now, if that didn't work, then perhaps I would have proposed a more intimate arrangement. After all," he grins widely, "as a doctor, you know there are benefits to falling asleep to a human heart beat. And what better way to convince your subconscious that I am alive if not to fall asleep to _my _heart?"

I finally tear my gaze away, looking at the floor. A single phrase is running through my head.

_He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows._

I can't think. I can't focus. Sherlock knows, he _has_ to know. Why is he pushing this issue?

"Why are you pushing this, Sherlock?" I manage to ask, still determinedly staring at the carpet.

"John, isn't it obvious?" His voice is softer, closer, and I feel like I am going to snap. There's too much tension, too much emotion running through me. Sherlock knows, and he's not running away. He's not disgusted. In fact, he's suggesting _I fall asleep listening to his heart_.

"Not to me."

I feel a hand come to rest gently on my knee, startling my eyes up. And there he is. There's Sherlock, so close, and yet not close enough, and I want to close the distance but at the same time I can't because I still don't understand what's going on here and I don't want to lose him but I'm so close to having what I want.

I look down at the hand on my knee. And then I look back up to the man holding it there, his face serious but a smile in his eyes.

"What," I say, starting the sentence slowly, "are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything, John," he's really smiling now, his face glowing, and he's _beautiful_. "I'm showing. I feel it, too."

"But," I lift my hand cautiously and hesitantly place it over his. "How?"

The sides of his eyes crinkle in amusement. He's _enjoying_ this. He's having fun turning my world upside down. To be honest, though, I'm not complaining.

"I believe I have succumbed to a chemical defect," Sherlock explains, his thumb starting to circle lightly, distracting me. "One that has, before, always been costly and avoidable."

His words trouble me, but I hold on to my two pieces of hope: one, the hand on my knee with its still moving thumb and two, his use of the word "before," which indicates it may no longer be costly and avoidable.

"But now?" I encourage, watching his face anxiously, my hand on his tightening without my permission.

"Now," Sherlock says, his voice low and soft. "Now, I believe it to be an asset. I may not have been as quick as I usually am, but I did figure out your feelings for me, John."

I look away, embarrassed, but really I should have known. How full of myself I must have been, to imagine I could keep something like that from Sherlock for any length of time.

He lifts his other hand and places it gently on my chin, turning my head so I look at him again.

"It took me a while," he continues, letting that hand drop once I meet his eyes again. "But I finally realized that I feel for you, too. And as long as you see me as how I truly am, and you still feel the same, then I don't think this is an opportunity we should waste."

I never realized before how insecure Sherlock is. His body language is indicating confidence, but I can read the doubt in his words and tone. He's afraid that I don't love _him_; that I love a piece of him, or a figment of my imagination that I've placed onto him.

"Of course I see you how you truly are." I say finally, realizing that if I want this, if this is going to happen, I have to show him everything.

"You are a right pain in the arse sometimes," I smile slightly, softening the insult, "but you are brilliant and wonderful. You are smarter than anyone I have ever met, and you have the biggest heart, too, even though you prefer to hide it." I remember my words at his grave. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much. And I never want to feel the way I did when you were gone."

Sherlock is so quiet, listening to me, drinking in my words, his eyes piercing as he seems to stare straight into my soul.

"I know things won't be perfect. I know that your work is of paramount importance to you – hell, you told me that at the beginning." I laugh and he smiles slightly, but I still see anxiety in his eyes as he listens for anything that will confirm the self-doubt he conceals.

"But I have always been here to support you in that, and I won't ask you to change. I don't want anything to be different." I steel myself to say the words, to make the confession we've been talking of but neither of us has actually voiced. I look into his eyes and the trust I see gives me confidence to go on.

"I love _you_, Sherlock," I feel suddenly light, weightless, and yet equally strong and capable. "I love you _for_ you, not just for the parts that make you brilliant or the parts that make you attractive," my eyes travel down his body and when they return to his, the lightest blush is creeping up his cheeks. I grin. "I love all of it. You wouldn't be you without violin at three in the morning or body parts in the fridge or constant text messaging or how you talk to me when I'm not here and expect me to abide by the decisions you make."

I pause, letting that sink in. "This kind of thing is an all-or-nothing sort of deal, Sherlock." I reach up and put my free hand on his the side of his face, my thumb gently drifting over his cheekbone. I've dreamed of doing this for so long, it seems unreal that it's actually happening. "And I'll take all of it."

Sherlock's eyes are wide as he registers everything I've just said. His thumb stopped moving on my knee but I'm not worried; I can see his brain racing as he tries to fit it all together, causing him to discard however many foolish theories he had about me not loving him exactly as much as I do.

Even though it's the expected progression at this point, I'm still a little surprised when Sherlock says, "Are you going to kiss me, John?"

I shouldn't be embarrassed, since that was my intention, but I'm not used to anyone putting it so bluntly. I feel the blush rise up the back of my neck, but I try to ignore it.

"Do you want me to?" I ask instead, figuring that with Sherlock permission may be the best way to go. I take a moment to brace myself for future slightly awkward encounters in this regard.

Sherlock nods, but he seems suddenly uncertain. I realize just then how absolutely little I know about his romantic history, because I don't even know if this would be his first kiss. That thought helps me get control of myself, master my personal desires, and I lower my hand from his face. I smile, though, and use my other hand to squeeze his on my knee, showing him it's not a rejection.

"Why are you stopping, John?" he asks, his voice petulant, but I can read the relief in the set of his shoulders.

"I want you to be certain, Sherlock."

"I _am_ certain," Sherlock's hand on my knee twists up so he can grab my fingers, interlacing them between us. "I am completely certain of you, John."

How do I put what I'm thinking into words? My thoughts are scrambled, being pulled from joy in knowing that Sherlock feels the same way, to desire to do something about this newfound knowledge, to worry that if we take things too quickly it'll mess it up.

"It's not that I don't want to kiss you," I start to explain, allowing myself one glance at his lips before going back to his eyes. "Believe me, I do. But I think that this is going to be new for both of us. After all, you're the only man I've ever wanted to be with. And, well, I don't know much about your dating history."

"There's not much to tell," Sherlock responds. He looks as though he's going to say more but then he stands suddenly, his hands going behind his back as he quickly goes to look out the window.

Before I have time to feel anything, much less speak, I hear Mrs. Hudson's voice,

"Yoo-hoo, boys! The police are here for you, they say there's another fire."

I turn and see her standing in the doorway. If Sherlock hadn't moved with such speed she probably would have caught us in a rather telling position. I realize we're going to need to talk about how we act around other people.

I glance at Sherlock and see he's watching me, and I know the conversation is not over. However, there's a question there too, and I nod, grinning as his eyes light up.

"Tell them we're coming now, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says, looking at her and then moving forward to grab his coat. "Our third fire. Brilliant! Ready, John?"

I also have stood and am currently putting on my coat when suddenly Sherlock is right there, invading my personal space. I glance quickly at the doorway but Mrs. Hudson is gone, heading down to tell the police we're on our way. There's barely an inch between us; I can feel the heat radiating from Sherlock's chest.

He leans down and for a brief moment our foreheads are touching. Both of our eyes slide shut, and it's a very interesting sensation, to be so close to him but with just this one point of contact.

And then he's gone, leading the way down the stairs, and of course I follow, because that's what I do. We see the police car waiting for us and Sherlock doesn't complain, he just gets in, and then we're on our way to the third fire.

I hope that this one will contain the evidence he needs.


	10. Investigation and Intimacy

Chapter 10: Investigation and Intimacy

It is such a relief to have spoken with John and clarified our feelings toward one another. The part of my mind that has been fixating on it and worrying about it for the past several days is finally quiet, and I'm able to put my full attention on the burned building in front of me.

The police and fire brigade have finally agreed that there is someone malicious at work, and this building is the first I am allowed to fully examine. I step through the ash, sniffing the air as I try to collect more evidence. It's late in the day, so the sun is setting, but I can still make out many details.

I examine the fireplace, determining it is _not_, in fact, the cause of the destruction, no matter what they may want to tell the press.

I make my way back to the front door. I initially dismissed its importance, assuming the killer would find a less conspicuous entrance, but I realize that to this point all the fires have happened during specific times of the day, when either the sun would be restricting the view of the door or the darkness was great enough to cause partial blindness. Perhaps he is stealthier than I credited him.

After that I inspect the tile of the kitchen floor, which has remained relatively untouched although the rest of the room burned around it. I say relatively; there are scorch marks here and there, where evidently more of the flammable material was placed. I scrutinize them, following their patterns. It seems familiar to me, though I cannot place why.

I finish my examination and return to where John, Lestrade, and the husband are standing.

"Did you see anything?" the husband asks anxiously. I nod at him.

"I saw quite a lot. I have a few questions for you, though, so I can put it all together."

"Anything." Finally, a witness worth having.

"Why were you away from home?"

"I was at work. I stopped at a little restaurant on the way back. It's our favorite, it's where we had our first date."

"What restaurant is this?"

"St. Stevens," he replies. "We either go there or bring something home once a week."

"How nice," I say, feeling slightly ill. "Can you think of any reason why someone would want your wife dead?"

"Not at all! She's a wonderful woman. I'm more surprised that she would put up with me, you know?" his shoulders curve inward slightly. "I wasn't exactly the best husband, but I tried. Before her I was a little wild, dated a lot of girls. But she was the one. We didn't have to date long for me to know I never wanted to be with anyone else."

My smile is a little more natural this time, though still mostly forced. "I see. So no enemies? No strained relationships?"

He shakes his head. "Most of her family is dead, and she doesn't talk to her sister much. It was really just the two of us. After my background…well, we were both loners. Just looking, until we weren't anymore."

I purse my lips, trying to fit this love story into the frame of the other murders. "And she was unemployed?"

"Basically. She liked to knit, so she would knit little dolls on request. But other than that, yeah. We were thinking of having a baby soon."

I see John wince and I repress the urge to roll my eyes. How cliché, this tragic romance. "Her customers were all okay?"

"Yes, they loved her. She was brilliant, her mother taught her to knit when she was young."

"But her mother is dead, you said."

"Yes."

"Hmmm…" Yes, this is all very interesting. I need to figure out what is tying these women together, why they're being targeted for the murders.

"Do you have a picture of your wife?"

The man reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. "Yeah, here. This one's from our wedding."

I reach out and take the picture, examining it closely. Nothing out of ordinary, just a simple ceremony. The bride wore white, her long red hair vivid against the silk. The husband wore a plain but sharp black tux. They have their arms wrapped around one another, exchanging a loving glance.

"May I keep this? Temporarily."

"Yeah, of course, if you think it will help."

"It might. Thank you." I hand the picture to John, who tucks it safely away. "I think that's all I'll need from you right now, but I will be in touch."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I'll do anything I can to help."

I nod at him and turn to face John as Lestrade leads him away.

John cocks his head at me. "Is any of this helping?"

I flash him a smile. "Oh, yes, things are certainly looking up. If I can get similar details from the second boyfriend, and a picture of the girl from the first, then I think I will have enough to work with."

"Are you trying to flesh out the type of target this guy is looking for?" John asks.

"Indeed. We already know he's looking for women in relationships. Apparently they don't have to be married, just committed. If these women look alike, that can be another criterion. Possibly searching for a particular one, and not minding if he kills those who aren't correct? Still too many variables. But I no longer feel like I am drowning in my own head."

"Good, because I don't know how I could save you from that." John winks, teasing.

I open my mouth to say something embarrassingly sentimental – along the line of _you have already saved me_ – but luckily Lestrade arrives at that moment.

"How do you think the criminal is entering, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks.

"Through the front door." Both of them look at me in surprise. "I don't know if he acquires a key, but there doesn't seem to be any other point of entry and I realized that during each attack either the sun was situated to the building so looking toward their front door would result in haze or it was too dark to be able to clearly identify any intruder."

Lestrade whistles. "We had a guy on the force once who was really good at lock-picking. Would be useful now, to have him take a look."

"I hardly think he would see more than I," I sniff. Just then John's phone starts to ring.

"Sorry, I'll take this over there, you two continue." John pulls his phone out of his pocket and steps several paces away, speaking quietly.

"Did you find anything else?" Lestrade asks, continuing as if there hadn't been an interruption.

"I've seen those flame patterns before, in an experiment, I think. If they match at all crime scenes, I'll know he used the same ingredient to ignite each fire."

"Ingredient?" Lestrade questions my choice of words.

"Yes, ingredient. I believe it is a liquid but there is a possibility for several other materials, so I'm not eliminating anything yet. However, as a gas would be more difficult, and I don't think it would leave the marks I'm seeing, I'm putting that at the bottom of my list."

"Anything else?"

"Ask me again once I've interviewed the other boyfriend and obtained pictures of all the victims." I put my hands in my pockets and tilt back on my heels, ready to head home.

"Yes, alright. Do you think you'll have anything for us tomorrow?"

"So long as I get the information I require, I would say that is a certainty."

"Well, thank God you're confident," Lestrade laughs without humor. "It would be great if we could get this solved before he strikes again."

"I understand your desire to keep the body count to a minimum, Detective Inspector. I will speak with you soon."

He just nods as I turn and leave.

I approach John as he puts his phone in his pocket, having heard the tail-end of his conversation.

"Has he agreed to meet with us?" I ask, nodding toward his phone. To his credit, John doesn't even bother to ask how I knew he was talking with the second fire's boyfriend.

"Yes, he said he would meet us in the morning. There's a coffee shop he suggested, so I told him we would go there." We start walking toward the main road together, searching for a taxi.

"Why did you do that? What's wrong with our flat?"

John gives me a look. "I think he prefers a more public place after you lashed out on him over his message machine."

I blow it off. "The sooner he talks to us, the sooner we can find his girlfriend's killer. It's in his best interest, really."

"I understand that's how you see it, but not very many people would agree with you, Sherlock." John sighs, and I glance at him curiously. He smiles at me.

"You see the world differently. I don't expect you to change, but you can't expect everyone to accept your reasoning, either."

I frown. "Their lives would be better, more quickly, if they did."

John nudges me with his shoulder. "I'm sure you think so."

I bite back a sarcastic response, realizing that John is purposefully teasing me so we don't get in a fight.

We don't say anything more as we get into a taxi and I give the driver our address. I've restrained myself at the crime scene because one, I was moving around so much it was inconvenient to keep John close to me and two, I don't know how he expects us to act in public and I assume it is something we must agree on before we let others know. If we let others know.

However, we are in a taxi now and no one we know will see us, so I pull off my glove and stuff it into my pocket. Then I lay my exposed hand palm-up on the seat between us. An offering.

John sees what I'm doing and, after a short pause and a small smile, reaches over and places his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation, feeling my blood thrum through my veins.

We're both quiet during the rest of the ride. I think we know there's more to talk about when we get home, but right now we're in the moment, connected, and that's what matters.

We separate when we pull up to Baker Street, and after John pays I lead the way upstairs, shedding my coat as soon as we reach the landing. Then I pause in the middle of the room, not quite sure where to go from here.

John sees my hesitancy and smiles as he hangs his coat over a chair.

"Everything alright?" he asks, coming to stand closer. I don't know how to respond. The desire I've been suppressing while working on the case is surging back up again and I want to grab him, hold him and kiss him and… I'm not sure what else. I've never felt this needy, at least not in the physical sense.

I can't find the words to describe what I'm thinking, so I just look down and examine his face, reading every line and searching for acceptance. I find it immediately.

"Fine," I smile, because I'm still not sure how I can act, and even though we wanted to before and I know I am certain, I don't think now is the right time to kiss him.

We stand there for a few more moments, and to an outside viewer we must seem quite ridiculous. There are several of inches of space between us, and we're not moving, not speaking, just standing and looking. But I'm reading emotions in his face that have never been directed to me before, and I wonder what he's seeing in mine, and it's one of those sappy moments that make annoying teenage girls squeal in theatres and neither of us move.

I blink then, because I have to, and John's mouth twitches into a smile.

"Fancy a cup of tea?" he asks, reaching out and giving my hand a slight squeeze before heading to the kitchen.

"Please," I take this as a cue to go to the couch and I pull my case notes toward me, adding what we've learned tonight. There is a lot to put together. My mind slowly starts to take over, repressing the urges of my body once again. It's natural, instinct, but for once I'm not quite sure I'm happy about that fact.

I'm still writing when John is done with the tea, and he brings it over and sits next to me. I accept my cup willingly and take a small sip before setting it down and pushing the papers over a bit so he can look at them.

"What do you think?" I ask, watching his face as he sets down his cup as well and starts to look at my additions. He shifts so that the lengths of our legs are touching, and I smile slightly before returning my thoughts to the case.

"Well, this time it was a husband instead of a boyfriend. That might mean something."

"Maybe. They were recently married, though, and didn't date for very long before that. Probably irrelevant."

"Right. Oh, here's something – that restaurant he mentioned, that's where Jennifer and I had our date."

"Really? An odd similarity, don't you think?"

"I dunno. It could just be a coincidence." John looks at me, and he sees something in my expression that makes him add, "You don't think it's a coincidence, do you?"

"No. I think we need to ask him more about his dating habits in regard to that restaurant."

"I've got his number. I'll give him a ring after we meet with the second boyfriend in the morning."

I write a note next to the husband's name – _St. Stevens_ – and shuffle the papers slightly. "Okay, now the girls." I list all the similarities we've discovered.

"I can't figure out a motive," John says, his eyebrows pinching together.

"Nor I. But give me time, I need to think about it."

"Of course. You think you'll get something from what we have here?"

"Yes." I wave my hand at my head. "I just need to let it…percolate."

John grins at the use of the word, then yawns. I glance at a clock and realize it's later than I thought.

John leans back and stretches his arms over his head. I lift my hands and press them together, placing them against my lips. I tap my mouth a couple of times before I say,

"You can go to bed, if you want." I dart my eyes to the side without turning my head. "I just need to think now, anyway."

"That's," John pauses to yawn again, "probably a good idea."

"Good," I reply, standing up. "Just give me a moment to change."

"Sure – wait, what? Sherlock, what are you saying?"

I glance down at the casual suit I'm wearing. "Well, I don't want to lay down in this, now do I?"

"Are you planning on joining me in bed?" I don't quite understand John's tone, and that bothers me.

"Problem? We're not going to have sex, if that's what you're worried about."

John's face turns red. Interesting.

"No – I'm not – " he splutters, trying to get his bearings. He takes a breath. "You just caught me off-guard, is all. I thought you said you needed to think?"

"Yes, and you need your rest. I won't be sleeping, I assure you."

John blinks a couple of times, clenches his hands once, relaxes them, and then smiles slightly.

"Alright, yes," he nods, looking around the room. "You go, uh, change, and I guess I'll… meet you there?"

I find his attitude amusing. "Brilliant. Just a moment."

I make my way to my room and change into my silky blue pyjama pants. I hold the matching top in front of me, deliberating. I prefer to sleep with as little clothing as possible, but I won't actually be sleeping in this situation. Also, I need to be able to think. Skin to skin contact may not be the best path to encourage the correct line of thought.

With that in mind I put on my shirt, looking forward to the time when I can leave it off. Then I head to John's room, smiling at the darkened living room that indicates he turned off the lights when he left.

His room is also dark when I enter, but I can make out John sitting on the side of the bed, his hands clasped in his lap. He looks up and our eyes meet.

I go and sit next to him, our shoulders touching. We sit like that for a minute, neither of us quite sure what we should do next.

"This might feel a little different, since you prefer to sleep on your back," I say.

John chuckles softly. "Of course that's what you'd say. Alright, then. You first." He motions toward the bed.

I raise my eyebrow at him, but he's right. We both stand so I can throw back the covers and then I climb into his bed, lying on my back with my arms at my side.

"Coming?" I ask when he doesn't immediately follow.

He grins, moving to join me. "Yeah, sorry, just had to convince myself this is reality."

I roll my eyes but smile as he clambers onto the bed, adjusting so his head is on my chest. It's slightly awkward for a moment, until John says,

"Sherlock, you can put your arms around me."

"Right." I reach down and pull the comforter over us and then wrap my arms around his torso, moving slightly to accommodate this new position. That feels much better.

Then John exhales, relaxing his body, and everything is _right_. I breathe deeply, trying to regulate my heart rate so John has something steady to listen to. It's rather difficult, but given our current proximity, I shouldn't be surprised.

I take stock of our position. I'm lying on my back, more or less in the middle of the bed. John is to my left, his head turned to face inward so his right ear is against my chest. His right leg is between mine, the heel of his foot lightly resting against my calf. His right arm is mostly pressed under his body, although I feel the tips of his fingers brushing my side.

I contemplate that for a moment. It's probably not the most comfortable position. He'll have to adjust at some point.

His other hand is resting along my torso, his bottom finger just above my navel. In turn, my left arm is wrapped comfortably around his shoulders and my right is across his side, settling about halfway down his back. Overall, we're much closer than I have ever been to another person for any extended period of time.

We're silent for several more minutes, but I can tell John hasn't gone to sleep yet. I want to start thinking about the case, but I know I won't get very far until John is unconscious, so I let my mind wander.

My head is clear. I never realized just how pervasive the discomfort was until this moment. I suppose I became accustomed to it, assumed the pressure was just a result of my constantly racing mind. I wasn't aware of how much it truly hurt until this moment, with John, in the cool darkness of the room and his steady heat half sprawled over me, his head resting over my heart.

It is so peaceful and quiet and instead of being hateful it is a blessing because it has done something that I didn't even know I needed; it has removed my pain. I feel better than I have in, well, years.

I grip John closer, my fingers travelling up to tangle in his hair. He shifts, but he's shifting closer, not away, and I am momentarily dazed by the measure of emotion this man must have for me. Can I be trusted with his heart?

"Sherlock?" John says quietly, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric of my shirt. Yes, removing tops as soon as possible is a good idea.

"Hmm?" I reply, looking down at the top of his head. I smile, knowing he can't see me and feeling incredibly ridiculous at my sentimental thoughts.

"Earlier," my mind flashes through several different options as to where this could lead, "I thought you were going to tell me about whether you've kissed anyone before. If it's okay, I'd like to know."

I consider how to phrase my answer. It should be an easy yes-or-no, but it's not quite so simple.

"When we kiss for the first time," I begin, my voice steady despite my anticipation, "it will be the first kiss with someone who really cares about me. Who cares about who I am, not just what I have to offer, in whatever fashion."

I pause. "It will be the first kiss where I will actually try, and the first kiss that I won't delete. Will it be the first time my lips have touched another person's? No. But," my fingers start stroking through John's hair, "for all intents and purposes, yes, it will be my first kiss."

John is quiet while he processes this. "Do you remember the others?" I can tell he's trying to hide the jealousy in his voice, but he doesn't quite manage it.

"No – as I said, I deleted them – but honestly, John, if anyone should be jealous it would be me. You've done much more than kiss with many more people than I." I ignore the images of all the women I've seen John with in the years I've known him flash before my eyes. They don't matter now.

"More women, perhaps," John muses. Then he seems to realize something, an aspect of myself never addressed between the two of us. "Er," he shifts slightly, and I can tell he's uncomfortable asking this next question.

"I have only ever been sexually attracted to men." I tell him, saving him the embarrassment of voicing the words. "But, for the most part, I have chosen an asexual lifestyle, ignoring the desires of my flesh in favor of my mind."

"Right." John clears his throat slightly. "But…Irene?"

Yes, Irene. The Woman. The epitome of her sex, whose only fault was to allow her attraction to me get the better of her.

"Irene fascinated me, I admit." I start, searching for the words. "But it was her intelligence that interested me, and not her body. She would never be an appropriate partner for me, even if I was sexually attracted to her. Since I wasn't, it made her easier to let go." It is my turn to clear my throat. "I do view her as the greatest of women. She certainly knew how to play the game."

John nods against my chest, and I can sense he's almost asleep.

"May I ask a question, now, since I've answered yours?" I request. John nods again, and I feel his chin drop as he yawns.

"Why do you want to be with me?"

John twists in my arms, turning his head so he can look in my eyes. I watch him curiously, waiting for an answer.

"Because I love you." He says simply.

I smile a little, but that didn't exactly answer my question. "Yes, but why?"

A crease appears between his eyebrows, indicating his confusion. "Do you want me to repeat what I said earlier? Make a list?"

Now I frown in confusion. "No, that's not what I mean." I wave one hand around vaguely. "Why did you, what's the term, change teams? Why do you want to be with me instead of a woman?"

John smiles, understanding what I'm asking. He turns his head away, reclaiming his place on my chest. "I've been with women all my life. I've been happy with some of them. But I joined the war for a reason. A family has never been my ultimate goal, and I will not consider myself unfulfilled if I never have children. After all the women I've been with, none of them have been ones I want to spend the rest of my life with. And I may not have been interested in men before you," I can hear the grin in his voice, "but then again, there are no other men like you, are there?"

My eyes close as I listen to John's words. "You fascinate me, Sherlock. You have since the first time we met, and since then I've become more and more entranced by who you are. And I realized, as I was dating these women and living with you, that more and more I wanted to be with you, doing whatever it was you were doing. Even if that meant sipping tea while you ranted and raved; I want to be with _you_, Sherlock. We've connected far more deeply than I've ever experienced with a woman before."

"The anatomy is a little different." I point out.

"Perhaps." One of his hands comes up to start tracing patterns over the cloth on my belly. I'm truly beginning to hate shirts. "I still find you attractive, though."

"And I you," I respond. I feel John's silent laughter.

"Good," he replies softly, his hand coming to a rest along my side. He's about to fall asleep, nearly there.

I remain quiet, letting him drift. Moments later I hear him mumble,

"Thank you."

"For what?" I ask quietly.

"You," it sounds like he says. Then he's asleep, his breathing deep and even.

I think about that for a little while, fingers still playing with his hair as I consider his words. But the case is pressing on my conscience, so I eventually turn my thoughts in that direction. John will be here, I've got him safe in my arms.

Now I have a delicious case to solve.

**Story Note: I made up St. Stevens. If it is a restaurant in London, that's a happy coincidence.**


	11. Multiple Connections

Chapter 11: Multiple Connections

I wake up feeling warm and rested. It takes me a minute to remember what happened last night.

Right. Sherlock in my bed. I stretch my senses beyond the post-sleep introspection. He's still here. I must have turned in my sleep, because I'm on my left side, using Sherlock's bicep as a pillow. I smile and feel his other arm tighten across my chest.

I open my mouth to ask if his thoughts gave him any answers last night,

"I love you,"

Oh, _pants_. Apparently the floodgates are open. I need to get myself under control.

Sherlock laughs and pulls me closer.

"Did you sleep well?" his voice is rough from the hours of disuse.

"I did," I reply, blinking the sleep from my eyes and stretching.

"Would it be childish to say 'I told you so'?" Sherlock asks, "Because I do believe it was I who suggested my presence would allow you to sleep more fully."

"You know," I begin, turning so I can face him. He loosens his grip enough for me to move, but doesn't totally let go. His eyes reflect more green as they meet mine. "Normally I would have a snarky comeback for that, but right now I feel so good I just don't care. Say it all you want – you were right."

Sherlock smiles at me but, to my surprise, doesn't say anything. He leans forward and places his forehead against mine again, closing his eyes. After enjoying a moment where I can look at him without his observation, I follow suit.

I'm a little surprised at Sherlock's instinct for physical contact. I mean, he always invaded my personal space before, but it was because he had no boundaries, not because he was expressing affection. This natural inclination he has for me as far as touch is concerned is pleasantly surprising.

I don't think either of us wants to ruin the moment, but the mind of Sherlock Holmes is constantly racing. All too soon he pulls away, saying, "Okay, John, get up! We've got a witness to interrogate."

I watch in amusement as he jumps out of bed and starts pacing. I wonder how much energy he's been holding in, keeping still so I can sleep.

"Did you come up with any new ideas?" I ask, leaning forward so I can stretch my abdomen.

"Mmm, three," he tilts his head back and forth. "Quick, get dressed and I'll meet you in the living room."

"Oi!" I call after him as he practically runs from my room. "Are you going to make me breakfast?"

He doesn't slow, but I think I hear him chuckle. I sigh and shake my head, and then I get up and get dressed.

When I get to the living room there's no breakfast, sadly, but there is a dapper looking Sherlock wearing a deep purple shirt waiting for me, and that's almost as good.

"I'll just get something at the coffee shop," I say, catching my jacket as Sherlock throws it to me.

"Excellent plan, John," Sherlock says, heading toward the door. He reaches back as I follow and I take his hand without thinking. It's not until we reach the bottom of the stairs and are about to enter the street that I realize we haven't really talked about this.

"Uh, Sherlock?" I murmur, looking down at our joined hands. Sherlock follows my gaze and his eyebrows knit together.

"Right. We've yet to discuss this." He pauses for just a moment before letting my hand go. "Later."

I nod and follow him out of Baker Street, my hand feeling suddenly empty. But we _haven't_ discussed it, and we should decide exactly what we are and how we want to portray ourselves before we just start acting without thought.

Sherlock hails the cab but I give the address of the coffee shop, since I was the one who actually talked with the boy.

Sherlock takes my hand again as we drive, and I just smirk and shake my head at the ridiculousness of our situation. It's like we're a couple of teenagers hiding from our parents. We detach once we get to the shop and I put my hands in my pockets to restrain myself. I have a feeling that Sherlock would not mind if I took the step in making us public, but honestly I'm not sure I'm ready for it.

It's not that I'm worried about people seeing me as gay – they don't understand me or my relationship, and therefore their opinion has no weight. It's more that _I_ don't understand my relationship, and I want to have that cleared up before we start letting people make assumptions.

I see the second boyfriend sitting at a table alone, nervously tapping the coffee between his hands.

"Jared, hi," I say, remembering how he introduced himself when he called me back. "Thank you for coming to talk with us."

"Of-of course," he stutters, glancing anxiously at Sherlock. Sherlock nods at him slightly, his expression blank, a mask.

"Do you have a picture of your dead girlfriend on you?" He asks. My eyes widen in alarm.

"Sherlock!" I look at him sternly, and he gives me an innocent look in return. I frown. "No, don't. Here," I hand him a couple of notes. "Go get me a coffee and one of those pastries."

He looks displeased but he takes the money and turns to go.

"And no sugar." I remind him. He smirks at this and raises an eyebrow before going to queue. I turn back to Jared and take the seat across from him.

"I'm terribly sorry about that. He doesn't exactly understand…emotion." I explain.

Jared is staring after Sherlock is shock. He turns slowly to face me. His eyes are bright with tears. I wince internally.

"Um…do you think you could describe her? Hair color, that sort of thing." Sherlock was right in getting this information, just not in his method.

Jared clears his throat and nods. "Yeah, sure, uh, she has blond hair." He lifts his hand to reach just below his shoulders. "Comes down to about here. And blue eyes, really bright." His brown eyes meet mine and I read the pain there.

I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. We're doing everything we can to help. Now, did she have a job?"

Jared nods, brushing a stray tear off his cheek. I pull my hand back as he starts talking. "She worked as a waitress to help pay for university."

A realization strikes me. "She didn't happen to work at St. Stevens, did she?"

The boy looks up from his coffee to stare at me in surprise. "Yeah, she did. How did you know that?"

"Hardly a difficult deduction," Sherlock is back, holding my coffee and some strange pastry item. I decide not to be picky and just accept it quietly as he takes the seat next to me. "We've determined that St. Stevens was related to the girl of the third murder, so the fact that you would have a waitressing girlfriend who works at the same place is not that unlikely."

"He means to say, that is very useful, thank you," I translate, taking a sip of my coffee. Oh, that feels good.

"You think her job has something to do with it?"

"I'm almost certain of it," Sherlock says, folding his hands in front of him. "How did you two meet?"

To my surprise, Jared blushes. "I actually met her while I was on a date with another girl in St. Stevens. But I didn't date her until later!" he looks between us uncertainly. "I didn't cheat on that other girl, she dumped me! Then I went back to find Kelly."

I raise my hands to calm him down. "We're not judging you, we just need the facts. Can you think of anyone who would want Kelly dead? Perhaps someone in relation to St. Stevens?"

He shakes his head. "No, I can't. She got along really well with her coworkers, and everyone thought she was great. I was so proud of her; she made good enough money and she was smart, so she wasn't going into debt to get through uni."

"Alright, well," I look at Sherlock. "Sherlock? Any more questions for Jared?"

Sherlock tilts his head, tapping his fingers against his lips thoughtfully. "Just one. Is there anyone at St. Stevens with whom _you_ do not particularly get along?"

Jared looks confused at this. "No, not that I can think of. I'm there a lot, you know, because of Kelly, but her boss is really understanding. He and I joke around a lot. And none of the other customers seem to mind. I never get in her way, so…" he trails off, evidently unsure if he's answered the question sufficiently. Sherlock just nods, and I can tell he's thinking hard. He doesn't seem to have anything more to say.

"Thank you," I smile reassuringly. "You've been a big help."

"Yeah, no problem." Jared glances at his coffee. "Uh, I think I'm going to head out. But you can call me if you have any more questions or anything."

"Fantastic," I stand with him so I can shake his hand. "I promise, we're doing everything we can to find who did this."

Jared nods and meets my eyes for a brief second as we shake hands. Then we release and he leaves the shop, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking with his head down, shoulders hunched. Defeated.

I sit back down next to Sherlock and finally get started on the pastry he got me. It lost some of its warmth, but it still tastes good.

"Something isn't fitting together." Sherlock says suddenly. I look at him and swallow quickly.

"What isn't?" I ask.

"St. Stevens. Obviously it's connected, but how? Why is someone targeting these women – there is no motive, it doesn't make sense."

"Maybe we need to talk with the first boyfriend again. I contacted the hospital and they gave me his temporary address. I guess he's staying at a friend's."

Sherlock taps his index fingers together, folding the rest. "Yes, perhaps. Did that address come with a number, or do you want to make a house call?"

I remember programming the number into my mobile, just in case. "There's a number."

"Good. Call it in a minute." I look at Sherlock in surprise.

"In a minute?" I already have it in my hand. "Why?"

Sherlock lays his folded hands in front of him on the table. It is very frustrating, not being able to just reach out and touch him. He's right there, and I know he wants to, too, but because we're in a public place it's just not right for us now.

_Stop complaining, John. It is worth it._

That's true.

I blink to get out of my thoughts. Sherlock is sitting patiently, waiting for me to stop staring at his hands and give him my attention. I blush slightly, realizing he probably deduced what I was thinking, but he gives me a small half smile.

"Yes, I was hoping we could talk about that," he says once I look him in the eye.

"Here?" I ask, gesturing at the many different people who are within hearing distance.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow as he follows my movement. "They won't be listening to us. Far too engrossed in the silly little details of their own lives."

"Rather like we are at the moment?"

Sherlock's gaze comes back to me. "I can think of several people who would be very interested in what we have to say to each other."

"Not like it's any of their business." I frown.

"Precisely. If it makes you more comfortable, however, we could go back to the flat."

I shrug. "I guess it doesn't really matter. Or, hey, fancy a walk?"

Sherlock's eyes soften. "Wonderful suggestion, John."

We both stand up and I toss my trash as we make our way to the door. Sherlock reaches forward to open it for me and the two of us set off down the street, wandering aimlessly.

We're close enough to touch, and our elbows keep brushing, but neither of us takes the step we both want. This is new to us, so we're feeling our way, figuring it out.

"So, Sherlock," I say as the silence starts to stretch too long for my liking. "What silly little detail of our lives would you like to discuss?"

Sherlock glances at me from the corner of his eye, amused. "Every one, John. I want to know exactly what this means, what we'll do and what we'll say and how we'll act. But it is apparent to me that you are the one with experience here, not I, and I am more than willing to follow your lead on this occasion."

I'm flattered, although I doubt my "experience" is going to be much help to us. This all feels completely new to me, too, since there _are _differences between men and women, and even among men Sherlock is not average.

"Well, first, I guess, we have to ask ourselves what we want out of the relationship."

"You. Next." Sherlock replies promptly.

I laugh. "Thanks, Sherlock, but that's not exactly what I meant. More like, what do you expect me to do for you now that I'm your…" I struggle to find the appropriate word. _Boyfriend_ seems too childish and ill-fitting. "…I'm with you." I manage to conclude.

Sherlock takes a moment to reply. "Why do you have to change?"

"No, not change, exactly." I struggle to find the words to explain. "Okay, last night, for example. That wouldn't have happened, at least not the way it did, if we weren't…" This is going to get annoying fast.

"Together." Sherlock supplies.

"Yes." I sigh. "What do you expect from the relationship? I mean, some things _will_ be different."

"Yes." Sherlock agrees. "You are going to kiss me."

I feel heat creep up the back of my neck. I shouldn't be so embarrassed by this, it's not like kissing is a big deal.

Except in this instance, it kind of is. Kissing Sherlock is something I've been imagining for a while without expecting it to go anywhere, and now that it's dangling in our future it sometimes makes it difficult to think of anything else. And also, it's Sherlock. It will be his, more or less, first kiss, which means he won't know what to expect – but at the same time I'm sure his massive brain has picked apart what could happen and how.

_He's probably going to be better than me,_ I realize.

"Yes, I sure hope so." I look over to see Sherlock staring at me, barely paying attention to where we are walking. I smirk. "I'm counting on it."

As I look into Sherlock's eyes I see them dilate slightly, despite the bright sunlight. "I said I would follow your lead, and I will. But do hurry it up, won't you?"

I laugh and, thinking _sod it_, reach over and put my arm through Sherlock's. His eyes widen in surprise, but then he smiles.

"John, people are sure to talk."

I tilt my head back and laugh loudly, almost daring anyone to do so. "People do little else."

Sherlock laughs with me and it's a golden moment, strolling arm in arm down the sidewalk, focusing entirely on each other and not caring what other people think.

I should have known it would end too soon.

My phone starts ringing, and I glance at the name as I answer. Lestrade. "Yes, Detective Inspector?" I say, glancing at Sherlock. He's watching me intently.

"John, you and Sherlock need to get down here immediately. We have another fire. But this one's a little different." I look at Sherlock, who nods, indicating he heard what Lestrade said. Sherlock hails a cab as I ask,

"What makes it different?"

"The victim is male." I widen my eyes at Sherlock, who looks at me impatiently, not having heard that part.

I mouth: _the boyfriend_. Sherlock's eyes brighten with understanding and I listen to Lestrade give me the address.

"You got that? Are you on your way?"

"Yes, Greg, we're in a cab now," I say, my familiarity letting his first name slip out. Rather unprofessional, that. "How is the girlfriend holding up?"

Lestrade laughs nervously. "Actually, here's the thing; this one left behind a boyfriend, too."

"_Oh_," I narrow my eyes. So much for the _searching-for-a-certain-girl_ theory. Although that one was pretty shot once we learned the second girl was blond and not a redhead.

"We'll be there soon." I inform him. "Anything else?"

"No, but I need you two to talk to him. He's relatively calm, although upset, as you can imagine."

"Only too clearly. See you soon." I hang up and look at Sherlock, who's staring at me impatiently.

"Well?" he prompts. I shake my head.

"This time it was a gay couple. Two men, and one of them was killed. That makes things more difficult, doesn't it?"

Sherlock stares at me for a second and then slams his fist against the side of the door suddenly, causing an exclamation of protest from our cabby.

"Sorry!" I apologize to him hurriedly. "What was that?" I hiss at Sherlock.

He's staring at his hands now. "Damn. I was looking at it the wrong way. Of course! Stupid. John," his eyes snap to mine. "I need you to call Jared. Who was he on a date with when he met Kelly?"

I'm not quite sure how this relates, but I pull out my phone and find the number, then hit call.

"Dr. Watson? Did you think of something else?" Jared answers, his voice tired. I sympathize.

"Yes, sorry, Jared, we just thought of one more question. Who were you on a date with when you met Kelly?"

Jared lets out a large breath. "Oh, I don't know, it was a while ago… I think it started with a 'J'…Jenny? No…"

"Jennifer?" I ask with trepidation.

"Yeah!" My heart sinks even as Jared's voice lifts. "Yeah, it was Jennifer. How did you know?"

"That's what we do," I reply. "Thanks, Jared. I think we've almost got it solved. I'll let you know."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson." We hang up.

I look at Sherlock. "He was dating Jennifer when he met Kelly."

Sherlock nods, unsurprised. "Now call the husband. He said he was pretty wild before he got married. How much do you want to bet he dated our Jennifer? Probably took her to St. Stevens. It's his favorite restaurant, after all. I wager he took every girl there as a first date, hoping they would like it too so he could have an excuse to go all the time. Oh, this is the fun part, isn't it?"

I elect not to reply as I find the number for the husband in my phone.

When we arrive at the scene Sherlock strides purposefully toward Lestrade and the fourth witness, and I have to jog to keep up. We pass several policemen who are hurrying this way and that, and they don't pay us any attention. There are several hoses spraying the fire, and it looks like they've got it under control.

"Tell me, what women have you dated?" Sherlock barks as soon as we're close to the two men.

"Sherlock, he's – " Lestrade tries to say, but Sherlock interrupts him.

"He used them as a cover; he's only recently come out, obvious." Sherlock focuses entirely on the gay man, whose eyes are very wide. "Women you've dated, and quickly!"

"I-uh," the poor man doesn't look like he was expecting this at all. "There was Kayla, and Christine, and, um, Jennifer, and – "

"Hear that, John?" Sherlock turns to me, ignoring the man as soon as he said 'Jennifer.' "You must admit, you have terrible taste in women."

I don't let the opportunity pass. "Hopefully I've improved my preferences, then." Sherlock flashes a quick smile at me before turning back to Lestrade.

"Recently John went on a date with one Jennifer, who we have determined has dated all the men who have had the misfortune to lose their significant other in these serial fires. The targets are not the victims; they are the victim's partners."

"So you think this Jennifer is the one killing off the partners of those she's dated?" Lestrade asks, reaching for his police radio. "Can you describe her to me?"

"No, Detective, wait," I hold out my hand, several pieces falling into place. "Jennifer told me she dated someone on the force, who was then transferred. That's how she met Molly. And then what did you say at the last crime scene? _We had a guy on the force once who was really good at lock-picking._ Why did you transfer him?"

Lestrade is giving me a look I rarely see pointed at me; I imagine it's similar to how I look at Sherlock when he makes some brilliant deduction. I start to feel self-conscious.

"Brilliant, John," Sherlock whispers. I meet his eyes and I almost act on how I'm feeling, regardless of who is watching. And it's not just me; I see it in his gaze.

He blinks and raises his voice, "Yes, that must be it. This officer is good at lock-picking, which is how he got into the houses. His police connections helped him stake out the houses without seeming suspicious, learning their habits, and it's also how he got the material needed to start the fires."

Sherlock looks to the newest burning house, his eyes narrowing as he sorts it all out. "He dated Jennifer, loves Jennifer, but she dumped him. He couldn't take it, losing someone he cares about so much. So of every man she dated since, he kept a record. And once he had the means, he started hunting them down. But he wouldn't just kill them; oh no, that would be letting them off easy. No, he would kill _their_ loved ones. Let them see how it feels to lose the one they care about."

"That's horrendous," Lestrade says, his hand going slack on his radio. Tears are now freely streaming down our newest target's face.

"That's passion." Sherlock responds, facing us with his hands together behind his back. "Who was the officer, Lestrade?"

"Carter. Uh…Frederick Carter, I think."

Sherlock nods. "You'll want to bring Mr. Carter into the station."

"Of course." Lestrade calls another officer over. "You. Get our men on the lookout for Frederick Carter. He transferred from our division several years back."

"Yes, sir." The officer replies, turning immediately and jogging off toward a larger group of policemen.

"John," Sherlock addresses me. "Do you still have Jennifer's number?"

I remember planning to delete it, but then never getting around to it. At this moment, I'm grateful. "Yes."

"You've got another call to make."

**A/N: If you review, please don't give away the secret. Some people read reviews before they read stories, and I don't want them knowing from the beginning. Thanks!**


	12. Oscillating Opinions

Chapter 12: Oscillating Opinions

Jennifer is sitting on one side of Lestrade's interview table, John and I on the other. Lestrade is standing in the corner, observing.

"Thank you for meeting with us," I say, sensing John's discomfort with once again being in contact with her. I'm pleased he dislikes the proximity, though annoyed that he has to be in an uncomfortable situation. The paradoxical nature of my emotions is exhausting.

"Yes, of course," Jennifer's eyes are not on me as she answers; she's focused exclusively on John. He coughs, using that to shift his gaze and turn his head away.

I place my elbows on the table and lean forward. "I assume you've heard about the recent fires?"

"Yes, why?" She's still looking at John. I have to stop myself from frowning. "Aren't they just accidents?"

"No, they're murders." This gets her to look at me.

"Murders?"

"Yes." I watch her carefully. "And we believe they are all connected through you."

"Me?" Jennifer looks honestly startled.

"Yes. It is unnecessary to keep parroting my last word back at me." John steps on my foot under the table.

"I didn't kill anyone!"

John cuts in. "We know. But you do seem to be connected."

She takes the excuse to look back at him, "How?"

I answer, despite her having addressed the question to John. "We believe it is an ex-boyfriend of yours who is now hunting down every man you've dated since."

Her eyes widen. "What? Why?"

I look at her coolly. "You tell me. Why did you break up with him?"

"Wait, who? I'm not following you."

John sighs. "The officer you dated. You said he was how you met Molly, remember?"

I detest that she's able to look at him again. "Freddy? But… that was years ago. Why would he care now?"

"He never stopped loving you." I say, the words uncomfortable in my mouth. "And he cannot take the fact that you have loved others since."

"That's…insane." Jennifer is shaking her head in disbelief.

I narrow my eyes. "It's the truth. How many people have you dated since?"

She taps her finger against her chin. "Not many…There was Jared."

I nod; I know that name.

"And then, uh, Liam."

"That was the first fire," John interjects. I meet his eyes. "I got that when I got his number."

Jennifer has to think for a moment before she remembers the next one. "Right. The next was Stephen. But it was pretty obvious he didn't really…swing that way, you know?"

John and I glance at each other. "The gay couple."

"Then there was Samuel."

I don't recognize this one. I look at John, but he seems lost, as well. Lestrade, however, turns out to be an asset.

"That was the husband in the married couple."

I turn back to Jennifer. "Is that everyone you've dated? This is important; anyone else could be his next victim."

"Yes. Well." Jennifer looks between us. "I mean, then there was you, of course, John."

It feels as though my blood turns to ice. A physical impossibility, of course, but an apt description all the same.

I stand up. "We have to go."

"What?" Lestrade steps closer, joining us at the table. "Why? It's not like John is dating anyone else."

I see John run a hand over his face, and then stare into the tabletop.

"Good point, Inspector." I mutter, trying to find my way through all the thoughts that are suddenly swirling in my head. John may be in danger. I may be in danger. What could Carter have seen? Does he know where we live? Should I be worried about a fire in our flat? There's nothing Lestrade can do that we can't do for ourselves. Or that Mycroft has already done without our permission.

I continue replying to Lestrade. "But that may mean that John himself is the target. Or, as you all constantly express, John and I may appear enough as a couple that this man who does not know us assumes we are one."

I lock eyes with John. I can see he wants to speak, but now is not the time.

"Then stay here and we can watch over you until Carter is captured." Lestrade seems oblivious to the silent exchange in which John and I are engaged. "Sherlock, if either of you is the possible target, you need to stay safe."

I wave my hand indifferently. "Don't worry about us, Lestrade. We can take care of ourselves."

There's worry in John's eyes. Pain, too. The worry I understand. But the pain? Why?

He must see the question in mine, because he gives me a small half smile. It doesn't reassure me, however. He's thinking more than his face can say.

I feel irrationally afraid. I don't fear Carter, despite the fact he may be targeting one of us. We've dealt with murderers before; this is nothing new. No, the unknown meaning behind the look in John's eyes is what is creating this pit in my stomach. I search his face, but I'm not getting the answers I need.

Lestrade is speaking again. "Sherlock you really shouldn't – " I tune him out and lean forward toward Jennifer, bracing my hands on the table.

"Is there anyone else? _Anyone?_"

Jennifer shakes her head. "No. I really don't date that much, those are all the guys over the last several years."

"Good. Lestrade, we're leaving." I turn to the Detective Inspector. "Don't bother sending anyone to watch us; it's a waste of manpower that could be otherwise diverted to finding Carter. John and I will be fine."

I reach for John and pull him out of his chair, but I have the presence of mind to let go as we start walking.

"Sherlock, I really don't think this is a good idea." Lestrade follows us as we leave the room.

I open my mouth to answer him – mostly to say _bugger off_ – but John beats me to it. "Greg, we understand your concern. But we've had people after us before, and Sherlock is observant enough to notice if our flat's been tampered with. We'll find somewhere else to live for a while if we have to, but really, I don't even know if I count."

We've almost reach the exit as John continues. "Jennifer and I went on one date, and we didn't even kiss. I didn't call her back. If he pays as much attention as it appears, Carter will realize that there really wasn't anything between us."

"You can't count on men like that to think clearly." Lestrade argues. "Maybe there wasn't anything there, but minds that have been twisted with hate sometimes see what they want to see."

John stops walking so he can face Lestrade directly. I pause too, waiting.

"I know. Sherlock and I will watch out for each other. You focus on finding Carter."

They stare at each other for a moment, but whatever Lestrade sees in John's face convinces him.

"Yes, alright. You two stay safe."

"We'll do our best. Come on, Sherlock." John turns and together we make our way out of the Yard.

The taxi ride back to Baker Street is tense. My fear lingers, an uneasy twinge in my gut. I want to reach for John, but I don't – it feels as though a barrier has been raised between us, one that I don't know how to cross.

"Do you think he'll target either of us?" John asks, his voice almost despondent, as we get closer to home.

I glance at him, but he's staring determinedly out the window. I speak slowly, carefully. "I don't know what he saw when you went out with Jennifer. It depends on his perceptions. Of that and our relationship."

John lets his head fall against the glass. He sighs. "I shouldn't have taken your arm earlier."

Panic flashes through me. "What?"

"Anyone could have seen us. If Carter was watching me, trying to determine if I'm with anyone…" I wait, but he doesn't say anything more.

"I could have pulled away." John shouldn't take all of the blame. Or any of it, in fact. It's not his fault. "I'm a willing participant."

John laughs, cold and dark. "Yes, but you were waiting for me, right? Following my lead. You started to solve the case just moments later. If I had just _waited_." He hits his head against the glass as he says that last word. "We were going to talk about it. I let my emotions overrule my logic." Another laugh. "You've always said that was wrong."

I don't know how to respond. Yes, that is what I said. John is using my past philosophy and reasoning against me.

I look at him now and see a reflection of myself. A reflection that, for the first time in my life, fills me with shame. John really has listened when I speak, hearing what I've said despite his constant scoffing.

How can I explain to him that I no longer see it that way? That my cold existence seems so unbearable to me now, after one night of John's warmth?

"John…" I need to find the words.

The cab arrives at Baker Street before I manage, and we get out and pay. We're silent as we climb the stair, but I know the conversation isn't finished.

We both remove our coats, setting them over the backs of chairs. I pull my scarf from my neck and toss it onto the table and then go back and close the door. I don't know where this conversation will go, but I doubt we'll want to be interrupted.

I turn to face John. His body is angled toward me, but he's looking away.

"John." I take a step closer to him, but the distance feels greater.

John keeps his eyes averted as he speaks. "It's my fault you're in danger."

"We don't know for certain I'm in danger." Convincing John it doesn't matter is of upmost importance. "Regardless, I put you in danger all the time. This is normal for us."

John doesn't seem to be listening this time. My logic is solid, but still he says, "Maybe this isn't a good idea. If people are going to target us because we're together."

This is unpleasant. This doubt, this fear of rejection. A week ago I could have accepted it and moved on without any painful repercussions. But I've opened myself up to John, and now everything feels sharper. Now I know what I want and what it's like to have it. Now it would actually feel like I'm losing something. "Have you changed your mind? Do you…no longer feel the same for me?"

John eyes lock on mine. "What?" This time he takes the step closer. He's only an arm's length away. Still it feels so far. "Of course not. That's not it at all."

I'm relieved by his words, but I can't shake the doubt. "Are you sure? I'm nobody's first choice."

"No, Sherlock." John's shaking his head as he takes another small step toward me. His deep blue eyes never leave mine. "I love you. I do. But… we haven't figured everything out yet, and already people are trying to hurt us purely because of these feelings. Maybe you were right. Love is only found on the losing side."

I don't know how he knows what I said to Irene that night, but it's honestly the last thing I care about at this moment. I feel myself closing off. Retreating to my protective shell. "So what do you propose? You leave?"

John flinches at the ice in my tone, but he doesn't back away. "I don't want to do that."

Now the barriers between us are my own. I don't know how to get rid of them. But I have to try. "I don't want you to do that."

A very small smile crosses John's face. "But it doesn't change the issue."

I comprehend his point; if it was anyone else, I would be saying the same thing. But now I see the other side, too, the point of view that has always been John's. Somehow I have to bring him back to it. "John. People have targeted you because of your association with me all the time."

My voice starts to rise without me making a conscious decision to do so. "I had to fake my own death to save you from Moriarty. Yes, this time it is because of our romantic attachment. But it would happen sooner or later regardless!"

John doesn't react to my raised tone, except to smile a little wider. "Are you actually telling me to pursue love? After all the distaste you've indicated otherwise?"

I reach forward and cross the breach, taking John's left hand with my right. I pull it upward and place his fingers against my throat, at my pulse. Elevated.

"I never wanted to feel this way. I actively avoided it." I keep my eyes locked on John as he feels my racing heart. "But now that I have you, I don't ever want to let you go."

John's really smiling now. He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. His hand adjusts to cup my neck. "Wow. That was really…romantic."

My eyes flicker to his lips before going back to his eyes. "Does this mean – "

John's fingers tighten against the back of my neck. "Yes, Sherlock." He's guiding my face down. "I'm going to kiss you now."

Our foreheads touch, eyes close, and there's a moment of anticipation. Then John tilts my head slightly and closes the distance, pressing his lips to mine.

His lips are soft, giving. Tender and loving, expressing a magnitude of care with one simple action. He forms his lips to mine, indicating equality rather than leadership.

I kiss him back, copying his movements, studying how to do it just right. We're moving slowly, a gentle give and take of pressure. I want more, I want to explore and discover and learn all I can about John in this new situation, but I let John set the pace. I said I would let him lead and I will stick to my word.

His fingers tighten in my hair and he pulls me closer against him, his lips parting slightly, molding against mine. His right arm reaches up to curl around my side, his fingers gripping my back.

I realize that up to this point I've been a relatively passive participant, my arms hanging uselessly at my sides. Perhaps he's going slowly because I haven't indicated my pleasure; he's still questioning if I want it – want him.

I reach up to cup John's face in my hands and kiss him back more fiercely.

If I'd thought any of my deleted kissing would re-emerge once I kissed John, I was sorely mistaken. I don't recall ever feeling like this, pleasant heat rushing down my body, connecting absolutely to another person. Words are effective and can be very expressive – and they've always been my preferred method of communication – but this simultaneous exposure and protection in kissing John transfers far more than any verbal exchange could.

Eventually, after an extended measure of time that is far too short, John pulls away. He presses our foreheads together and breathes harshly, eyes still closed.

"Sherlock," he exhales. I respond by kissing him again, my hands travelling down until I'm gripping his waist and then I pull him tighter against me. We're as close as we can be and yet I still crave to be closer. Suddenly the fabric of our clothes seems much too thick.

He kisses me back for several more minutes, but then pulls away again, his breathing heavier this time. I realize I'm out of breath, as well.

Ugh, breathing's boring. If we didn't have to breathe then we could just kiss without ceasing. In fact, I can't currently think of anything I'd rather do than kiss John. I consider it a personal failure that it's taken us this long to get around to it.

"I've always wondered if I could ever find something worth doing during my hours of boredom." I say, opening my eyes but keeping my forehead firmly pressed again John's.

John smiles, his eyes still closed. "And?"

"I believe that search has reached its conclusion."

His smile grows as he opens his eyes to meet my gaze.

"I'm happy to be of assistance."

We smile at each other for a moment, and then John chuckles.

"Good talk," he says.

I laugh slightly. "Talking's boring."

"Mmm," he reaches up to kiss me again. "I think I may agree with you on this one."

My arms encircle his waist and then we're hugging, John's face pressed into my chest and mine into his hair.

"Don't talk about leaving again." I murmur.

"No," he agrees. "We'll face this together."

We stand for a moment longer, embracing. Then slowly, reluctantly, I pull away and take just his hands, leading him to the couch so we can sit.

"What are we, John?" I ask, my eyes flicking back and forth as I examine his face.

He sighs in thought and leans against the back of the couch, keeping his fingers firmly laced with mine.

"Boyfriends?" he offers. I involuntarily make a face.

He nods. "Yeah, me too. But 'partners' sounds equally…off."

"I've never fit into a social norm." I remark. "Why should this be any different?"

John smiles at that. "True. Words so often fail me when I see you in your element. It's like you can't be contained by the boundaries of communication."

I laugh. "You make it sound so glamorous."

John just smiles at me, and I see in his eyes the absolute conviction he has in his words. This inspires a need in me and I ignore my hesitation and reach forward to kiss him. I pay particular attention to his lower lip in a way he seemed to find enjoyable before.

"Sherlock!" he exclaims after a moment, pulling away. I look at him curiously.

"Yes?"

He just gives me a look and I study him more closely, deducing his outburst. Face flushed, elevated heart rate, pupils dilated, pants tight… oh. Maybe I did that a little _too_ well.

"Sorry." I say, starting to pull my hands from his grasp. As he feels me start to let go, however, he holds on tighter.

"No, it's fine, just give me a moment." He takes a couple of deep breaths and looks around the flat, avoiding my eyes. I don't know what to do, exactly, so I rub my thumbs over his fingers and wait for him to look at me. When he does, I smile.

"Better?"

He smiles back. "Yeah. Blimey, I knew you would learn quickly, but I wasn't expecting that. You caught me off guard."

"I won't do that again," I promise, filing that away.

"Oh, I'm not saying that!" I pause in my mental action. John grins. "I'll definitely want you to do that again. Just, you know, in a bit. Once I'm more…accustomed to everything."

I smirk, thinking of the relationship term to which he's referring. "So you want to 'take it slow'?"

John laughs. "Yes, I guess that's how you'd put it. I don't want to rush things with you, Sherlock."

I keep quiet, because I simultaneously agree and disagree. I _would_ like to rush things with John, to experience and analyze and learn every inch of him. But then, I also want to enjoy the journey of exploration, to discover exactly what this means for both of us and who we are individually and together and how each new step alters it.

Additionally, I'm a little frightened.

"This is essentially completely new to me." I finally say. "I reaffirm my previous decision: your lead."

John grins. "So, you're saying I wear the trousers in our relationship?"

"If it pleases you to put it that way, yes." I raise an eyebrow at him. "I defer all decisions of physical intimacy to you."

John laughs at my language and then pushes me gently so I'm lying on my back.

"What are you doing?" I ask as he crawls so he's hovering over me, our heads even.

"Making a decision of physical intimacy." He smirks and then he leans down to kiss me, his hands finding a way into my hair. Every plane of his body is pressed against mine and I kiss back eagerly, my hands gripping the back of his shirt.

I realize the problem with this and I release him so I can find my own shirt, feeling for the top button. I manage to undo two before John grasps what I'm doing.

He pulls back, looking suddenly embarrassed. I open my mouth to ask why, but then I understand.

"It doesn't bother me that you have a scar, John."

He glances at me as he pulls away further, but the look doesn't fade. "I know, but…" he gestures toward me. "Look at you."

I look, but I don't see anything new. "What about me?"

"You're gorgeous. Some tiny scars from cuts and such, but nothing compared to me." I sit up so I can better face him. He's sitting properly on the couch, his back against its back, arms crossed as he stares into the distance.

"John, that scar is proof of your bravery and heart. Your will to live and your tenacity for survival. It's a testament to your strength. Embarrassment is ridiculous."

He rolls his eyes but he lets me put my arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer for a side-hug.

"Plus I'm bony." I add.

This makes him laugh, and my mouth twitches in a smile. "Alright, Sherlock, thank you. You don't have to start insulting yourself."

"I wasn't insulting. Merely stating a fact."

"Right." He shoots me a glance from the corner of his eye. "You know, we got a little distracted from what we were talking about."

I shrug, my arm still settled comfortable around John's shoulders. "We took a detour, that's all. You were busy utilizing the permission I gave to controlling our physical contact."

John hums. "Yes, and if you keep talking about it I may have to _utilize_ that control some more."

I wait to see if he will, but John currently has himself under control.

"Is there anything else we must discuss?" I query.

"How we're going to act in public, I suppose." He, seemingly unthinkingly, rests his hand on my thigh. "Do we want the Yard to know? You realize they'll give us a lot of grief."

"I don't want it to interfere with my work." I frown.

"Neither do I." John squeezes my thigh lightly. "I'll leave that decision to you. Whether you work better with or without them knowing, I'll support you either way."

I picture everyone's response if we announce our relationship to the world. Lestrade may be excited, but Donovan would probably mock, Anderson would act disgusted, and Molly would have to work through a myriad of her emotions before she could finally be happy for us.

"Not yet." I say slowly, studying the ramifications of each response in my mind. "It would be too distracting. Although," I lean my head against his briefly, "not touching you is also very distracting."

John laughs. "I guess you'll have to choose the lesser of two evils, then."

I hum in agreement. "Not yet. That's all I can say for certain."

"Well," John's face turns thoughtful. "If we want to avoid them finding out, we'll have to keep it secret everywhere. No more walks like we had before."

I scowl. Having John on my arm before was an intoxicating experience – the rush of endorphins from expressing ourselves outside the confines of our flat was unexpectedly intense. I want to experience that again.

But I'm not ready for the reactions of those we know.

"You're right." I say unwillingly. John grins at the expression on my face.

"You could always change your mind," he reminds me.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, yes. I will at some point. But not yet."

"Good. Now that that's established." He rolls his neck. "We still haven't labeled it."

"Do we need a label? Why can't we just be Sherlock and John?"

"Why not John and Sherlock?" John winks. "We don't need a label for ourselves, but we will need one once we tell people."

"Why?" I whine. This is stupid; people shouldn't be permitted to place the two of us in a little box in their heads.

"Think of it this way – how will you introduce me?"

I give him a look. "Hi, my name is Sherlock, and this is John."

"Not what I meant. More like, 'Hi, my name is Sherlock' – "

"Your name is John." I interrupt.

Now it's his turn to give me a look. "I know, I'm quoting."

"Why? Just use your name."

"Because I want you to – nope, nevermind." John sighs and shakes his head. "Fine. Hi, my name's John and this is Sherlock, my…" he looks at me expectantly.

"Your what?"

"Exactly. That's what people will want to know."

I have an idea. "How about this: Hi, my name's Sherlock, and this is my John."

It takes John a moment to realize what I've done, but when he does he bursts out laughing.

"That's great, Sherlock," he grins, shaking his head slightly. "That'll make everyone really uncomfortable."

"I like it." I sniff.

John is still grinning. "Strangely, I do too. " He tries it out. "Hi, my name's John, and this is my Sherlock." He laughs again, a short exclamation.

"It's not that funny." I protest, although his laughter is making me smile.

"No, but it's just so you. Is this what happens when you have an older brother? You get possessive?"

I frown, disliking the subject switch. "Mycroft's involvement with my possessions is neither here nor there, John."

"Alright," John rubs my leg for a moment. "I'm sorry I brought it up. And that'll be our fallback if people find out and we have to explain. You're mine and I'm yours."

I have to admit, I like the sound of that.


	13. Everything Has A Time And Place

Chapter 13: Everything Has A Time And Place

"Are you sure you're not going to eat?" I ask Sherlock as I dig into my plate of Chinese. Sherlock shakes his head.

"I am still technically on a case, John. I need all my energy," he taps his head, "up here."

"Right." I shake my head as I gather together my next bite. "And what we did earlier? That didn't take away your energy?"

"That was a necessary diversion." He smirks at me. "Now I can focus."

"Sure," I hum and return my concentration to my dinner. We're silent for a while, apart from the clinking of my utensils.

I'm content. Sherlock has proven his trust in me by giving me control over our physical relationship. It's a new sensation, and one that I'm not going to take lightly. I am gratified by how much it means he cares for me and the absolute confidence it indicates.

I realize that Sherlock has yet to say "I love you," even though I've said it to him on several occasions. I've been thinking of what that could mean and why, and I've come to one conclusion: he didn't grow up with it. His parents and brother rarely expressed affection, and so I doubt they would ever say the words unless it was absolutely necessary.

For someone who has never had cause to say the words, they can be very daunting. Sherlock is a man of action in many ways. I have to let those actions show me he loves me, and not expect the words to pass his lips.

I would like to hear it, though.

Suddenly Sherlock stands from the couch and goes to the kitchen, rooting around in one of the cupboards for a minute. I hear a sound of frustration, then the slam of a cupboard door.

"Sherlock?" I question mildly, raising my eyebrows and turning toward him. I watch him storm back out, a scowl on his face.

"Mrs. Hudson removed the experiment where I used the same material as Carter to strengthen his fires."

I frown in confusion. "How old was this experiment?"

"Years. It wasn't very important at the time; a minor distraction." Sherlock doesn't look at me as he grabs a journal from a shelf and starts leafing through it. "I partially deleted it before realizing I failed to write down my results." He slams the journal back on the shelf.

I'm not quite sure how to react. Does he want sympathy? He never wants sympathy. Answers? I don't have any. "Sorry, but does it matter? How will that help us catch him?"

"It won't, but it could help us prove it was him." Sherlock throws himself into his chair and starts tapping his fingers against the armrest.

I tilt back in my chair and look over at him. "Speaking of, how _are_ we going to catch him? Do you have any idea where to go?"

Sherlock catches my eye and a sly grin crosses his face. "We don't have to go anywhere. He's going to come to us."

I should be upset, but I'm just exasperated. "Were you going to tell me anytime soon?"

Sherlock cocks his head at me. "I just did."

I give him a look. "Should I be worried?"

Sherlock shrugs. "He hurts his victims by killing their loved ones. If we stay together, he can't hurt either of us by killing the other."

"You really think that's how he works? He'll wait for us to be apart?"

"That's how he makes his point."

Forced to stay with Sherlock for an undetermined amount of time? Let me think about it… "I can live with that." I decide, smiling slightly to myself. "How long?"

Sherlock glances around. "What time is it?"

I look at my watch. "Just after six."

He looks out the window. I follow his gaze to the gradually darkening sky. "You think he's watching us now?"

"I'm almost certain of it." Sherlock leans his head back and closes his eyes.

"Should I, I don't know, call Lestrade?" Sherlock is being very blasé about the whole thing. "I mean, a murderer is stalking us."

"Don't worry." His eyes remain closed.

"I'm not worried." I grab my plate and take it to the kitchen, rinsing it and putting it away. I speak again as I reenter the living room. "Where's my gun?"

Sherlock smiles and points. I find it under a stack of his handwritten compositions. I pause to look at them as I tuck my gun to the small of my back. I remember the basics of music reading from my clarinet days, but I never mastered the ability of hearing the tune just by reading the notes.

"Have I heard this before?" I ask, lifting the top sheet.

Sherlock raises his head to look at what I'm holding. "Um, no." He lets his head drop back.

"Oh." I set it back down and go to my chair across from Sherlock's.

I watch him for a moment and then reach over and pick up the novel I've been reading, flipping it to my saved place. I read for a bit, getting lost in the story. Our position is all a bit domestic, apart from the fact that there's a crazy killer waiting to strike.

The story is interesting, but eventually my thoughts stray from the words in front of me to the man across from me. I very much enjoyed kissing Sherlock. It is everything I thought it would be and more. I was right – he _does_ learn quickly. And to have his entire focus on me is exhilarating. Sherlock can have many different ideas running at once, but then he can also focus on something so single-mindedly it's as if nothing else exists. When he's kissing me it's that single-minded focus.

Sherlock lifts his head quickly and looks at me. I glance up from my novel, although it's been several minutes since I've turned a page, and get locked in his gaze.

"Do you want me to play it for you?" He asks as though the answer is vitally important.

It takes me a moment to clear my head and figure out what he's referring to. The violin composition, right. "If you like. I'd enjoy hearing it." I set my book aside. "You're very talented."

Sherlock gives me a half smile. "I'm dedicated to perfection. There's a difference."

"Not just everyone can compose, Sherlock."

He waves it off. "It helps me think."

"Yes, I know." I fold my hands in front of me. "It's a very healthy outlet."

"Oh, no, John, don't insult me that way. _Healthy_." He groans.

"Health is important. I _am_ a doctor." I stare at him. He's acting a bit odd. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighs. "Well. There are things I want to do, things I need to do, and things I'm forced to do. None of them are overlapping at present."

I use that comment as a brain exercise.

Things he wants to do: Would it be full of myself to say "activities" with me? To explore our physical relationship further? He certainly seemed to want it earlier.

Things he needs to do: Engage his mind, probably. Solve the puzzle, capture the murderer. We can't be caught off guard doing the things he wants to do if the thing he needs to do makes an appearance.

Things he's forced to do: That one's a bit trickier. To me it overlaps with the things he needs to do. I mull it over for a bit, but then a different idea comes to me and I resume our conversation.

"It's okay to be tense." I almost remind him again of the murderer after us, then decide it would annoy him.

"I'm not _tense_." Sherlock sighs again. "I'm conflicted."

"Mmm," I study him curiously. "Too bad."

He looks at me in confusion. "Why?"

I speak slowly. "I think I'd like to give you a massage."

Sherlock's eyes widen and I see him swallow. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

I grin at him for a moment and then glance out the window. Darker now, deep purple painting the sky.

It reminds me of the shirt Sherlock is wearing, and when I look back at him I get distracted by his neck and chest. I clench my hands together to keep myself from going over to him, annoyed that I _still_ have to restrain myself despite the mutual affection we've expressed. I'm ready to find Carter and get this over with.

I hear the doorbell ring and I react, turning my head toward the noise. Sherlock is up and to the door before I even lean forward.

I stand to greet our unfamiliar guest, but my smile freezes on my face when I realize who it must be. Looks like I'm getting my wish.

"Hello, John." Frederick Carter walks casually into our home. Sherlock closes the door behind him. I control the urge to whip out my gun and shoot him on the spot, trusting Sherlock knows what he's doing letting the man into our home.

"Carter." I respond, not particularly appreciating the first name basis. I glance at Sherlock behind him, thinking, _So much for him waiting for us to be apart_.

Sherlock shrugs.

"You dated my Jennifer." Carter says, taking a step toward me. No more pleasantries, I take it. He slips his hands into his pockets, casual.

"I don't think she's yours." I say, not intimidated despite his height advantage. He's nearly as tall as Sherlock. "And I'm not sure one date counts as 'dated'."

"I saw you kiss." Carter accuses. I glance at Sherlock again, whose eyes are narrowed.

"I kissed her cheek." I explain, my eyes flicking back and forth between them. "Perhaps your angle was wrong."

Carter purses his lips, a tremor in his steady calm. "You were in the restaurant for more than an hour."

"One tends to talk on a date." He's reaching. Lestrade was right about going mad with hate. "And we were eating."

"She was very interested in you." Carter continues to speak as though he's stating facts, but I can tell just how fragile his calm is. This is a man about to break.

"Yes, but since then I haven't contacted her in any way. As you can see," I gesture toward myself. "I'm no longer interested in her."

I'm a little surprised Sherlock hasn't spoken up. Usually he has much more to say, dominating the conversation.

"Oh, yes," Carter leers at me and then looks back at Sherlock. "I saw you two, you know. Arm in arm like a happy couple."

I wait for Sherlock to reply. This is the area where he has control.

"We had important case details to discuss." Sherlock says. "We wouldn't want anyone to overhear."

"Ohh…" Carter clicks his tongue. "Already ashamed of your new boyfriend?"

Sherlock and I both flinch at the term, though for Sherlock it's in his hands and not his face. Carter doesn't notice.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of." Sherlock says darkly. "Seeing as John's not my boyfriend."

I bite back a grimace, knowing the denial is for our safety. It's a more natural Sherlock, though. The loving, gentle side I've seen seems impossible in this moment, seeing the blackness in his face as he denies me.

Carter must see it too, because his expression wavers. "I truly thought… The way you look at each other."

"Haven't you heard?" Sherlock smiles grimly. "I'm a very good actor."

I swallow and look away as he continues to speak. "What better way to keep people from interrupting us than to make them think we're just a normal couple out to see the town?"

Carter glances back at me, and I wipe my face clean. "John must be a good actor as well, then."

I smile as naturally as I can. "Living with Sherlock, you tend to pick up a few tricks."

Carter looks between us. "Apparently I've been mistaken. I'll just be on my way." He moves to leave.

Sherlock steps in front of the door and then leans against it, crossing his arms.

"Not quite yet," he says, raising an eyebrow. "You still murdered four people."

"I brought _justice_." Carter hisses, taking a step closer to Sherlock. I move toward them. "What they did was stealing. I was simply righting the wrong."

"By taking their lives?" I ask, horrified. "How is that just?"

Carter's head swivels to look at me. "Stealing from _me_. Taking their sinful practices and ruining _my_ life."

"It seems to me that there should be equality in a relationship." Sherlock says calmly, pushing himself up from the door. Carter looks back at him. "As you consider Jennifer 'yours,' so should she see you as 'hers.' If she dated other men, it appears the balance is off. That does not mean they took from you."

I join in before Carter can reply. "What makes you and your desires better than anyone else's?"

"My desires are pure. I _love_ Jennifer. They just used her." There's anger in his eyes now as he turns his head to looks between us. I'm worried he's going to do something rash.

"You've been _killing_ people." I'm finding it difficult to allow the hypocrisy in his logic. Can he _honestly _believe that murder is the correct punishment for stealing, even if he had the right to deal the sentence? Not to mention they didn't actually steal anything.

"It was the only way." Carter's voice is hard. My hand slowly starts to slip toward my gun.

"And do you have Jennifer now?" Sherlock asks, taking a step closer to Carter. Carter turns to face him, and I see his hand reaching behind him in a way similar to mine. I look closely, but there's not enough room for a gun. Knife, then.

Sherlock's face is devoid of emotion. "Has attacking the lovers of her previous boyfriends brought her back to you? Is she _grateful_?" Sherlock's very close to him – too close. He won't be able to get away in time if Carter decides to pull the knife. Behind Carter's back, I shake my head at Sherlock, just a slight back and forth.

His eyes flicker to me for a fraction of a second.

"I haven't had the chance to tell her yet." Carter answers Sherlock, talking through his teeth. "But I have it all planned out. It will be the most delightful date. We'll see the new romantic comedy, then relax and chat at one of the finest dining establishments in town."

"And then you'll explain how you murdered four innocent people out of love." Sherlock finishes for him, a sneer on his face. "Well, too late. We've already spoken with her about that."

"What?!" I see Carter grip the knife behind his back and I lunge, pulling out my gun. But he's faster than I expected.

He turns and slashes at me, cutting me across the forearm and causing me to drop my gun. Reflexively I look to my injury, which allows Carter to bring his other arm around, hitting me square on the side of my head.

I stumble but manage a counter, striking with my good arm. My punch hits Carter in the nose, and he starts bleeding.

Sherlock grabs Carter from behind, twisting the knife from his hand. Carter is quick, though, and manages another punch toward me. I block, but it's with my cut arm, and the sudden pain causes a wave of agony to rush through my already pounding head.

I see stars and stagger, my injured arm reaching for the table. When I put pressure on it, however, it collapses and I fall to the ground.

I glance up and see Sherlock has Carter restrained, arms caught behind him and trapped in a headlock.

I grip my arm, applying pressure to the cut. It's deep but didn't seem to hit anything major. I try to push past the pain and focus on the diagnosis, but my head is pounding and there's darkness around the edges of my vision. Carter really put some strength in that hit.

I blink a couple of times and look more closely at my arm. I know I have to get the bleeding to stop, and I think I might need stitches.

I'm so focused on my injury that it takes me a minute to realize Sherlock is speaking.

"John? John! Are you alright?"

"I need…something." I say, looking at all the blood on my hands. "A towel, shirt, anything."

"I'm a little busy at the moment." Sherlock replies. I look over at him and realize Carter is struggling, kicking at Sherlock and trying to pull from his hold.

I see the knife near their feet and have the presence of mind to grab it, putting it out of reach. I grasp a dishcloth one of us luckily left lying on the table and press it to my cut. Then I practically collapse back to the floor, my head swimming.

"Sherlock…" I blink a couple of times and shake my head, trying to clear my vision.

"John?" His voice sounds more worried than earlier. I don't see what happens, but I hear a _thwack_ and then the thump of a body hitting the ground.

Then Sherlock is by my side, his long hands taking over and applying more pressure to my cut. He looks around and, failing to see any other option, releases one hand so he can pull his shirt off and make a proper bandage, tying it tightly.

The fainting sensation fades but the pounding remains as Sherlock supports me, sitting on the floor, and the pain in my arm starts to dull to a steady throb.

"I need to go to the hospital." I tell him, letting my head fall back on his chest. I don't recall when he moved behind me but he's there, keeping me from falling over. I may not be fully with it, but I do appreciate the experience of feeling Sherlock's naked torso. Too bad I had to get knifed and punched for us to reach that step.

"Yes, John." I sense Sherlock look around and then I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head. "You're going to need stitches."

"Are you going to call Lestrade?"

"I suppose. I would prefer to have a little time with Carter to myself…" Sherlock's hands tighten on my arm. "But he'll get his due."

"What did you do to him?" I raise my head to look at the prone form of Carter sprawled on our floor.

"Hit him on the head. With my own."

My pain fades further as I start to worry about Sherlock. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." I feel Sherlock's cheek press against the top of my head. "You're the one who needs a hospital."

"Help me up, then, and let's go."

Sherlock does so, wrapping his arm around my waist and lifting me to my feet. I sway, black spots sprouting in front of my eyes, but for the most part I'm doing all right. Sherlock uses his free hand to reach into his pocket for his phone and he quickly dials Lestrade.

"Hello, yes, we've got Carter." Sherlock's pauses for Lestrade's cry of surprise. "He's unconscious on our floor."

Sherlock glances at me as Lestrade replies. "No, I have to take John to the hospital." Pause. "Yes, that would be appreciated."

I close my eyes and just listen to his deliciously (_are you delirious, John?_) deep tone as Sherlock finishes the conversation. "We'll watch him until you get here. Hurry." I hear the snap of the phone close and then Sherlock's other arm wraps around my waist and his forehead presses to the side of my head.

"Sorry, Sherlock." I say, not completely sure why I'm apologizing.

"Why, John?" Briefly Sherlock's head presses harder against mine. "You have no need to apologize."

"I let him get me." I realize my reason as I say the words. I was so certain Carter was going to go after Sherlock that I wasn't prepared when he lunged for me. "Because I thought he was going to get you."

"I can take care of myself." Sherlock's words seem harsh, but his tone is gentle. "Obvious."

"You're a good fighter." I acknowledge. My knees start to buckle but Sherlock grips me tighter and keeps me on my feet.

"Couch?" he asks. I nod against his head and he leads me over so we can sit.

It's then I realize that Sherlock is still half-naked and Lestrade is on his way over with a police escort.

"Sherlock, you should go put on a shirt." I lean forward and put my head in my good hand, trying to ignore the hammering. Slowly he releases me and leaves for his room, returning moments later in a clean shirt. He sits back down next to me and lays a hand on my back.

We're quiet; I'm trying to get over the pain in my head and arm, and Sherlock is thinking of who-knows-what. His fingers are thrumming softly against my back, indicating he's lost in his own consciousness.

We remain in that position until Lestrade arrives, running up the stairs and making enough racket that we have plenty of time to move so we're a couple of feet apart on the couch.

Lestrade bursts into our flat and almost trips over Carter's collapsed body.

"Oh, hell," he grabs at the door frame to right himself. "How did this happen?"

"Carter attacked, we won." Sherlock replies shortly. "We're leaving now."

Sherlock stands and I follow, faltering slightly. I see his hand reach toward me but then he stops himself. Apparently it still really matters to Sherlock to keep the secret. I try not to feel hurt – I gave him the choice, after all.

He grabs our jackets and throws mine over my back, not bothering with the sleeves. Then he puts on his own.

Lestrade glances at my arm and Sherlock's blood-soaked shirt wrapped around it.

"There's a second car waiting for you," he tells us. Sherlock nods as we pass and I smile faintly. Lestrade turns away from us and bends down so he can cuff Carter.

I have to take the stairs slowly, relying on my good arm to keep my balance with the rail and ignoring the wave of pain in my head that comes with each step. Sherlock is patient, staying just ahead of me.

He opens the front door and once I'm through goes ahead of me to open the police car door, as well.

"Thanks," I say as he slides in next to me.

"You're welcome," Sherlock replies quietly. We both glance at the man in the driver's seat and elect not to do anything more.

The car pulls away from the curb and I promise myself I won't faint before we get to the hospital.

**A/N: I have received so much lovely feedback from everyone. I want you all to know that I appreciate it tremendously and it really keeps me going, especially on a chapter like this where the words just didn't flow. You are the best readers out there.**


	14. Heightened Emotional States

**A/N: I cannot believe I have over 60 followers for this story! I thought I would be lucky to end up with 10. My gratitude knows no bounds!**

Chapter 14: Heightened Emotional States

We arrive at the hospital too slowly for my liking, but once we're there John's status as a doctor and my impatience gets him treatment immediately.

A young nurse comes over to us and smiles charmingly. John smiles back.

As we follow her into one of the rooms John glances at me and I notice her eyes flick up and down his body while his attention is diverted. My eyes narrow.

When we reach the room John immediately sits on the little bed, letting out a sigh of relief. My expression softens as I watch him. His eyes meet mine and he smiles gently.

The nurse takes that moment to write her name and number on a piece of paper she had in her pocket. I watch her with my peripheral vision and when she looks back up I clear my face.

"You can leave now, sir," the nurse says to me, her eyes on John. I don't know how I've never noticed this constant flirting of women with my…my John. First Jennifer, now this nurse. I clench my hands together inside my pockets. Perhaps I've just ignored it, having failed to see its relevance before.

"I will stay with him." I inform her, standing firm.

"Sir, really, Doctor Watson will be fine." She looks at me as she says it but seems uncomfortable meeting my eyes. "We have a perfectly nice waiting room."

"Perfectly nice?" I mock, prepared to point out the ill-designed chairs, outdated magazines, and other multitude of failings their waiting room contains.

John speaks before I can. "Sherlock."

I look over at him.

"It's your choice."

We stare at each other for a moment as I read the double meaning behind his words. It _is_ my choice; and if I choose to stay, I am showing our nurse that there is more to us than just friendship. Social etiquette nearly caused me to make a decision for which I wasn't ready.

Just before I speak John's face tightens slightly. He knows me so well.

"I'll wait." I give him one last glance and then leave the room, my coat billowing behind me.

As I go I hear the nurse ask John, "Is he always so…"

"Dramatic?" John finishes the sentence for her, and I imagine his smile. "Yeah, he is." Then I'm out of hearing range.

I go to the waiting room and lower myself reluctantly into a too small chair, pulling out my phone and looking up the recent news. I search for any deaths, but despite an innocent-looking suicide there's nothing.

I wonder if John noticed the number she no doubt left on his side table, and what he did with it if he did. Logically I know he wouldn't keep it, but the uncomfortable rage of jealousy that I have unfortunately become accustomed to still tightens in my abdomen.

I tap my fingers against the armrest for a moment, and then I decide I'm being wasted sitting here waiting and not allowed John to keep me company.

"Excuse me," I say kindly to a passing nurse (_not_ John's). "I'm supposed to get a prescription, but I'm not quite sure where to go."

"Didn't the doctor give it to you?"

I smile even more charmingly. "He had to rush out, but he said I could pick it up… I didn't quite catch where."

She eyes me with slight distrust but leads me to a desk. "He should be able to help you," she gestures to the man sitting there. I turn my smile toward him but know immediately that flirting is not the correct course of action. I take in the bored expression, nice shirt beneath a worn jacket, and the padded wallet hiding under several clipboards and sheets of paper.

"What do you need?" he asks gruffly. I find his lack of customer service annoying.

I keep my tone civil. "I'm afraid my doctor failed to give me my prescription for pain medication."

"Your name?" he looks down at a paper he has in front of him.

I lean over the desk, subtly slipping him a 50 pound note. "John Watson."

He takes the bill smoothly – yes, I deduced his weakness correctly.

"Ah, Mr. Watson. Yes…your prescription." He looks to another pile of papers on his desk and takes out the sheet second to the top. "Here you are. Take that to any local pharmacy."

"Pleasure," I say, slipping the paper into my pocket. As I leave the hospital I type out a text to John:

_Left to pick up your painkillers and talk with Lestrade. See you at home. SH_

I head off to do exactly that.

"Where's John?" Lestrade asks as I enter his office, leaning to the left so he can look behind me.

"Still at the hospital. Where's Carter?" John is safe at the moment, and now my focus is on finding Carter and showing him _exactly_ how poor a decision it was to attack.

Lestrade sighs but allows my subject change. "In a cell. I don't think you should see him."

"Why not?" A bit of my anger slips through, and I grit my teeth. Oops.

Lestrade just looks at me. "That's why. If I recall correctly, the last time someone attacked a person you care about they fell from a window. Repeatedly."

My mouth twitches unhappily, but I've known Lestrade long enough to know that he's not going to back down on this. Usually I can get him to do what I want. This time, though…

"I merely need to speak with him." I try.

"Nope, no dice." Lestrade crosses his arms and perches lightly on his desk. "You've done some good work here, Sherlock. Go home and get some rest. Who knows what'll come up next."

I look around the room. It's already dark outside, the sun set long ago. He'll be up all night working on paperwork. The tan from his wedding ring is almost gone, having been divorced from his wife for nearly a year now. There is, however, a faint trace of familiar lipstick on his sleeve – Molly told me she'd been seeing someone new.

I absorb other irrelevant details and then nod slightly, taking my leave.

The cab ride to Baker Street is long and boring without John's solid presence beside me. I find myself hoping he beat me home, despite that meaning I've had the meds he needs sitting in my pocket while he waits.

I get my wish, albeit only partially. John is there, but fast asleep. I smile faintly as he comes into my view. He's slumped over on the couch in a frankly uncomfortable looking position, like he was sitting and waiting until sleep took over and made his body limp.

Taking off my coat, I toss it over a chair and go to stand in front of John. It can't be good for him to sleep that way. Frowning, I examine him for a minute. Then I lean over and slip my hand behind his neck, supporting his head and slowly lowering his body so he's lying down. Now he's in at least a slightly more acceptable sleeping position. I avoid jostling his bandaged arm and once he's settled gently lay it across his stomach.

I look at him and then decide to sit down, crossing my legs and putting my head level with his. I take one hand and trace over his features, examining each crease and line, the years packed into this little man. All the horrors he encountered, and he still managed to come out stronger for it. As I go over every detail of his life that I know, I'm amazed by the injury and pain he's faced, only to come back for more by being involved with me.

There are no witnesses, so I cease restraining my emotions. I take the hand of his uninjured arm and place it against my cheek, allowing a single tear to fall from the corner of my eye and trail away into nothing. So close. I was so close to losing him today. I fully expected Carter to come after me, as John did.

If he had gone for John's chest instead of his arm, if Carter had realized he could only get away by killing us, it may have all been over. He would never have succeeded, of course, but he could have taken John from me today.

I watch John breathe slowly, calm, feel his hand against my cheek, and decide I will never make that oversight again.

My head droops slightly, my eyelids fluttering, and I recognize I am fatigued. I don't recall the last time I slept, though it seems recent. I frown at the inaccuracy in my thoughts and resolve to get rest so I can 'clear the cobwebs', as the saying goes.

I consider going to my room, but the thought of leaving John and, more importantly, sleeping alone, is distasteful.

I turn and extend my legs in front of me, leaning against the couch and resting my head on my arm. I'm still holding John's hand, and I lay it over my wrist. I feel the outline of each warm finger, comforting against my skin. My recently freed hand slips down as my eyes slide shut.

I wake slowly to the sensation of fingers lightly caressing my face. Before opening my eyes I smile slightly and a single finger traces over the curve of my lips.

"Good morning, John." I say as I open my eyes. They rise to his warm blue gaze. In the back of my mind I notice it is still dark outside, the early hours of the morning.

"Morning, Sherlock." He runs his thumb over my cheek and then pulls his hand back. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

I reach forward and grab his hand, placing it back against my cheek. This is far more pleasant than last night; John is aware, keeping his hand there through his own volition. The connection feels more equal that way.

"You must have been exhausted, to fall asleep on the couch." I reply. "And you need your rest to heal."

John smiles at me and shakes his head softly. "Yes, but now neither of us is comfortable. Wouldn't the bed have been better?"

I consider this. My legs are asleep, there's strain in my back, and I feel as if I move my head my neck will be too stiff. I'm also here with John, inches apart, his hand on my face, both alive and relatively healthy.

"I am comfortable." I tell him.

John laughs in surprise. "Well, I'm not. Let's move, please."

Reluctantly I pull away from him and try to stand, stumbling a bit as a tingling sensation scatters down my legs. I rub my neck to get rid of the crick I anticipated and offer a hand to John as he stands as well.

He grabs it and glances up at me, taking in my self-massage. He raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes, leading him to his room.

John follows behind me as we take the stairs, his fingers grasping mine gently. "Sherlock, it's five in the morning."

I glance back to see him looking at his watch. "Your point?"

"No shame in going right back to bed." He squeezes my hand.

"My thoughts exactly." We enter the room and I pull John in front of me, indicating he should lay down first.

"My turn." I nudge him.

"Sure." John goes to sit on the bed but I realize something and grab his shoulder to keep him from moving. "What?"

"I know I gave you control over the physical aspects of our relationship." I begin. "But I would like to propose we remove our shirts. We are, after all, still dressed unsuitably for comfortable rest." We both glance at what we're wearing.

"Sure," John says again, fighting a grin. He lifts his eyebrows. "Shall we remove our trousers, as well?"

This gives me pause, and I struggle for a moment in finding a reply. I am accustomed to having something to say in every situation, and yet here with John I so often find myself unable to respond. Just as he did with his massage remark earlier, John keeps discovering ways to catch me off guard.

"Not yet, then," John rubs my arm for a moment. "Do you want to go get your pyjama bottoms?"

And yet another instance of where what I want and what I should do fail to overlap.

"I suppose so," I say, knowing we would be more comfortable. "I'll be right back."

I leave John to change clothes, smiling slightly to myself as I get to leave my shirt behind. I make sure to take off my shoes and socks as well, curling my toes into the soft carpet.

I stop at the bathroom on the way back, brushing my teeth for good measure.

When I get back to John's room he's already in bed, covers pulled back and a spot waiting for me. He's angled himself so his scar is hidden from me, but I plan to rectify that as soon as possible. I take the space left for me and the run a hand over John's chest, cataloging the movement of his muscles and the feel of his soft hair. This fascinates me; I personally am nearly bereft of all chest hair, and I've never cared nor been allowed to examine another man's chest so closely.

"Sherlock," John says hesitantly as my hand strays to his injured shoulder.

"John." I stop my examination of his body to see his eyes. There's a small fear of rejection hidden in the dark gaze. I keep our eyes locked as I move forward, breaking the connection only at the last second as I kiss his scarred skin.

He sighs, and it seems like a release. I feel his hand run down my back and a pleasant shiver runs through me, aching for more.

I push myself lower in the bed so John's head is above mine and I can be the one listening to his heart.

He runs a hand affectionately through my hair as I curl around his shorter frame. "That's what you meant by your turn, is it?"

"Mmm," I hum the affirmative and wrap my arms around his waist, the sensation of skin-to-skin contact electrifying.

John's arms move to hold me tightly. We're quiet for a minute, but I can hear the speed of his heart and know he is still far from sleeping again.

"I love you," he says softly. This seemingly random declaration makes me think.

"Normally I find repetition boring." I inform him, nudging my head to a more comfortable position on his chest.

"Yes," I hear John's smile. "I know."

"This isn't true when you say you love me. I wonder why that is."

John is silent while he thinks. I'm patient, listening to the healthy beat.

"Most people," John starts, speaking slowly as he gathers it all together. "Well, normal people," I let out a slight huff and he holds me tighter for a moment. "They hear it many times in their lives. You know, from mothers and fathers, siblings, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends… You are not normal, Sherlock." He kisses the top of my head. "I have to make up for years of lost affection."

I've never thought of it that way. It's true; I can't even remember the last time someone other than John spoke those words to me. Mycroft certainly doesn't say them, and he's the only member of my family with whom I have any contact. I try to think of the last time I said it to anyone and realize that's even farther back than someone having said them to me.

"Does it bother you?" I ask.

There's enough of a pause that I become worried. My fingers tighten on his skin, as if I can hold onto his affection by grasping his body more tightly.

"It bothers me to imagine you living such a sad and lonely life for so long." The pitch of John's voice changes slightly as he turns his head. "But I quite enjoy saying it to you, so no, it doesn't bother me. I wouldn't say it if I didn't want to."

Relief. I need to stop worrying that John will change his mind; it's obvious that he's dedicated to me and his feelings. I want to tell him I love him too. I try, tasting to the words on my tongue. I open my mouth to let them out, but nothing comes.

_I love you, John._ There they are, just out of reach. I don't understand why this is so difficult. It's not a lie.

Perhaps that's the problem. I am very good at lying; they roll right off my tongue when I'm using lies to get what I want. I'm rarely honest with people, keeping them at arm's distance. I show them truth through my deductions, of course, but I don't share details about myself. It's not their business.

It _is_ John's business, though. He should know what my feelings are in relation to him. I would hope my actions speak for themselves, but if I can get repeated enjoyment from hearing words I didn't realize I was missing, John would certainly feel that or more since he knows their value.

_John, I love you._ Still nothing, stuck in my throat.

"Sherlock," John says quietly. "It's alright. You don't have to say it."

"I want to." Well, _now_ my voice works. I frown, a low sound of frustration in my chest.

"Why did you get my painkillers for me earlier?" John asks, rather abruptly changing the subject.

"You needed them." I respond, not sure where he's going with this.

John sighs, but patiently. "You make me buy all the groceries that we share. But my medicine, which is only for me, you went out of your way to retrieve. I don't even want to know how you managed to get my prescription. The point is, you did it because you love me." John pushes me away slightly, and I am momentarily confused by the discrepancy between his words and his actions. Then he moves down to be at eye level with me, and I understand.

"You don't have to say the words." John takes my head in his hands. "I know."

I want to say all the thoughts running through my mind. I want John to know what he does to me, what he means to me. How terrified I was when that knife struck him, how I couldn't stand to wait in that hospital room apart from him so I had to find _something_ to occupy my time.

How even though he can say I saved him by getting rid of his limp and bringing him the adrenaline he craved, he saved me from a far worse fate by humanizing me and filling the hole that was steadily leading me to returning to drugs.

Are there even words accurate enough to express what he's done for me, and the gratitude I feel in return?

"John…" I say, at a loss. So much for my reputation at being eloquent.

John, though; my brilliant, wonderful John. He knows, and he doesn't push me. He just smiles, a glint in his eye, and then he leans forward and kisses me.

This kiss is far more exploratory, and I have a brief moment of gratitude that I brushed my teeth before almost all thought goes offline. Now it's all about touch and taste, reaction and response. John's tongue brushes across my lower lip and I allow him access, the new intimacy to this feeling almost overwhelming. He pushes me to my back and takes control, kissing me hungrily.

I kiss him back with equal fervor, finding his sensitive spots and lingering on them, testing the limit of what he'll allow.

He pulls back for a moment and rests his head on my chest, breathing heavily.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he gasps. I grin wickedly, my fingers tightening on his back.

"Too much?" I ask, prepared to back off. John takes a couple of more breaths before he responds.

"No…no, just right." He replies, lifting his head to look me in the eye. "You are so _right_, Sherlock."

He's looking at me with so much love and admiration, and I feel it build up inside me, bursting with emotions I've repressed for years.

I can't help myself; I growl. It's embarrassing, actually, but I move past it quickly by rolling John to his back and taking my turn in leading, letting my lips and hands say what my words cannot.


	15. Better

**A/N: I received a lovely review from Guest Luthien (thank you for being so kind!) that pointed out some language flaws my American-ness has caused. I went back through each chapter and I think I managed to find all the instances indicated where phrases or words were wrong and fixed them. If any of you find any more, please let me know. I am looking up the language differences when I'm not sure the US and the UK are the same, but obviously I'm missing stuff!**

Chapter 15: Better

I wake for the second time this morning, once again to an image of Sherlock. Instead of his sleeping face, however, I find myself viewing the back of his head and shoulders. My arm is fitted in the gap beneath his neck, the other wrapped around his chest and being held in place by Sherlock's own hand. He's still asleep, though; I can tell from the slow and steady pace of his breath and the relaxed set of his shoulders.

My stitches itch but I retrain from scratching, thankful that my position with Sherlock aids my knowledge as a doctor. Scratching would do me no good.

Sherlock shifts in his sleep, his fingers reflexively tightening over my hand for just a moment. I want to do some act of affection, but in this case I think letting him sleep would be the kindest thing, so I don't move.

_You're too short to be the big spoon_, the thought comes to me. I disregard it, comfortable despite Sherlock's greater height. I kiss the spot directly in front of me, which happens to be where his neck starts to curve into his shoulders.

I gently nuzzle my face to that spot, satisfied to stay still but not quite tired enough to fall back asleep. I close my eyes and breathe evenly, letting my thoughts drift. They focus almost exclusively on the man in my arms who is warming me and holding on even in unconsciousness.

We stay like that for about an hour. I cannot see a clock, but that's what it feels like. I remain awake the entire time, memorizing the moment and content with my life.

When Sherlock does move, it's sudden and unexpected. One moment I'm facing his back with my arms wrapped around him; the next he's flipped around and pushed me to my back, pressing his face to my neck and sprawling over my body.

"Sherlock?" I question softly, not sure if he's awake or just active in his sleep. After a moment I decide it to be the latter; his breathing is the same and he's unresponsive. I smile and rest my head against his, unsurprised at his oblivious movement. I've seen his incessant pacing firsthand – he has a body that just refuses to stay still.

His soft breath warms my neck and I think I may be able to slip back to sleep. Then I feel Sherlock's lips move, and I think I hear him speak.

"-ve you…" I strain my ears, but he doesn't say anything more. Sleep talker? It wouldn't surprise me.

"I love you too, Sherlock." I whisper, although I'm unsure if that's what his unconscious mind was even trying to say. Perhaps he wanted to give me something. It doesn't hurt to pretend, though.

"Mmm," Sherlock groans, and I sense he's waking up. His eyelids flutter against my skin and then he pushes himself back. "John?"

"Hello," I smile at him as he rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then he stretches, out his long frame, pressing against me.

He finally meets my eyes and I grin to see him so disheveled, his hair a mess and his eyes still blinking away sleep.

"What time is it?" He wonders, his eyes wandering around the room before returning to me. I turn on my side to face him, propping my head on my hand. I shrug.

"Doesn't matter; we've got nothing on today." I reach out my free hand toward him and he meets me halfway, entwining our fingers together. I press our joined hands to my chest and lower my head to kiss his knuckles.

"John?"

"Hmm?" I look back up at him. His eyebrows are scrunched together.

"What are you doing?"

"Years of affection, remember?" I let my head fall back to the pillow so I can use my other arm to grasp his forearm. He moves closer to allow my half-embrace of his arm.

His eyes bore into mine and I just let him stare, hoping he'll find whatever it is he's looking for. After a moment he leans forward and places his lips against my forehead. My eyes close of their own accord.

"What is this, John?" he asks, pressing his forehead against mine.

_Perfection._ "A sleepy morning?" I offer. His mouth twitches up. I smile in response.

"John, I would like to try our previous position again, if that's all right." Sherlock says suddenly.

"Which position?" I ask, ignoring the sexual innuendo.

"When I awoke. I regret my immediate movement after I regained consciousness; I want to experience that once more."

"No problem." I let go of his arm and fingers and roll onto my back. This is easy; all I have to do is let Sherlock throw himself at me.

I chuckle at the double meaning in my thoughts as Sherlock situates himself carefully, attempting to replicate his sprawl over my body to the last inch. Once he's sure his limbs are exactly where they should be he puts his face to my neck, exhaling softly.

"Better?" I ask, letting my head fall against his as I did earlier.

"I shall never need medication again," he declares. I realize the significance of this statement; understand the hole I am filling. The only medication Sherlock ever took was drugs – and not the prescribed kind. A shiver of fear runs through me. What if I mess this up?

"Speaking of," I try to keep my tone light. "My arm rather hurts."

"Oh!" Sherlock pushes himself up, one large hand in the center of my chest. I watch him above me as he gazes at me in concern. The lighting throws half of his face into darkness, highlighting his cheekbones on the visible side. "I forgot."

"It's fine." I start to sit up, but his hand keeps me down. "Sherlock, I can get it myself."

He frowns. "But I kept it from you."

"No you didn't, I didn't ask. Just let me up!" I say that with more force that intended. He releases me, turning his head away. Great, now I've upset him. "Sherlock."

He doesn't look at me. I sit so I'm facing him, my legs crossed. "Sherlock."

"What, John?" his eyes flash with anger, but I see the hurt he's trying to hide.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean to yell." I take a deep breath; sometimes dealing with Sherlock is very much like dealing with a child. "You were going to help, and I appreciate that. But just because we're in a relationship doesn't mean we have to be dependent on one another. I like that you want to take care of me. Just don't…smother me, okay?"

Sherlock's eyebrows constrict. "I knew I would get this wrong."

"It's not wrong to care." I place my hand over his and he instantly adjusts so we're clasped together. "I'm going to go take my medicine, okay?"

Sherlock nods and I start to leave, but when I reach the door he says. "It wasn't long enough."

I decide to tease him. "You'll have to find another way to get me on my back, then."

He looks at me in surprise, a half smile on his face. I wink at him and then head down the stairs to search for my painkillers.

I find them in Sherlock's coat and I grab a quick breakfast as well. This medication doesn't specify not to take on an empty stomach, but I'd rather not tempt fate.

When I'm almost finished I see Sherlock walk by me into the bathroom and moments later hear the shower running. I briefly consider joining him, but quickly decide I'm not quite ready for that. As comfortable as I am being with Sherlock –almost surprisingly so – this is still the only relationship I've ever been in with a man, and I need to pace myself.

I clean my dishes and hear Sherlock go to his room to change, so I take my turn in the bathroom. I decide to grab a quick shower as well and when I'm done I brush my teeth, the cleanliness refreshing.

When I leave the bathroom and enter the main room I see Sherlock on the couch, dressed in a different pair of pyjama trousers and his dressing gown. He's flat on his back with his hands pressed together in his "thinking pose".

I head back to my room and, taking his lead, put on a pair of track suit bottoms and go shirtless.

_Lazy day at 221B,_ I think to myself as I go back downstairs, stopping when Sherlock comes into view and just watching him for a moment.

I must stand there longer than I thought, because Sherlock tilts his head slightly and opens one eye to look at me.

"You are welcome to join me, John."

"Right." I clear my throat and go over, sitting on the edge of the couch and looking at Sherlock slightly over my shoulder. He raises an eyebrow at me. "What?"

Slowly he sits up, the muscles in his abdomen tightening. He doesn't speak, just lifts a hand to my face and tilts my head slightly, kissing me.

Sherlock pulls away first, which is slightly unusual for us. I smile at him and let my eyes ask the question.

"You taste different," he states, almost as if he's confused. I laugh at his bluntness.

"I just brushed my teeth."

"Ah," his hand slips from my face and travels down my chest. His fingers leave a path of pleasant heat. Will I ever get used to the way he makes my heart race? "What do I taste like?"

That throws me. How do I explain someone's taste? It's like trying to describe their smell.

I answer hesitantly. "Good."

Sherlock frowns. "That's hardly specific."

"Fine, then: What do _I _taste like?" I start to smile, expecting him to be stumped.

There's barely even a pause. "Normally you taste like the heat of the midday sun, the strike of lightning, and the rush of a waterfall. I taste strength and comfort and stability and trust… Just now you were too minty."

I'm speechless. I have to clear my throat before I speak again. "Well…that was really poetic…" Subconsciously I lick my lips. "You realize you didn't describe any actual flavors, though, right?" _Apart from minty_, I clarify in my mind.

Sherlock smirks. "You cannot taste yourself, and no one else is allowed to try, so you are unable to prove I am wrong. Now me."

"Ugh," I groan and rub my face in my hands. I try to search for the right words. "This isn't exactly… well, flavors, but you discarded that, so…" I feel my face start to flush with embarrassment. "You taste addictive, Sherlock. Like I can't possibly get enough and the more I get the more I want. It overwhelms me." I shrug self-consciously. "I've never really experienced that with anyone before. You taste…better."

Sherlock is smiling as I speak, but at the last sentence his expression turns perplexed. "Better than what?"

My masculinity, already shirking, hides in a corner as I reply, "Everything."

Several hours later finds us spread out on the couch, my back to Sherlock's chest, his arms around my middle. We've been talking (among other things) but now we're silent. Sherlock's fingers are tapping a rhythm against my skin. I consider turning on the telly but that would involve moving to find the remote, and I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you very much.

I think we're relishing this day together where we don't have any responsibility. We just finished a case and I have work at the surgery tomorrow, so who knows when we'll have another chance to lay around and be lazy together.

If Mrs. Hudson were to walk in right now she would find us out, but I think Sherlock is beyond the point of caring. His head is tilted back, away from me, but every so often he leans forward to press a kiss to my hair. For someone who has been deprived of affection for most of his life, he certainly has good instincts.

I close my eyes and focus on the physical sensation. I've only started sleeping well these past few days with Sherlock, so I have quite a large sleep debt to pay off. That combined with my injury has left me feeling abnormally exhausted. If that means I get to spend my time lying around with (or on top of) Sherlock, though, I'm not complaining.

"I have a question for you, John." Sherlock says slowly.

"Hmm?" I offer, not opening my eyes.

"What do you see in the future for us?" My eyelids lift in surprise. I can tell from his tone that this is a serious question, though, so I take care in choosing my answer.

"Long-term or short-term?" I clarify first, assuming the former but needing verification.

"Both." Sherlock's fingers stop their tapping. His entire attention is focused on my words.

"Well, short-term I anticipate continuing as we are. Solving cases, your experiments, my work at the surgery, and this. Us. Exploring." I let my hands drift down his legs as I speak. "Long-term? Well, we'll have to tell people eventually. And, uh…" Is he thinking marriage? I don't even know if that's legal here, since it's not really something I've had reason to think about before.

"Unless we're killed first, we'll eventually get too old to run around London solving crimes. Then I suppose we'd have to retire." I almost laugh at how quickly we're planning our lives together. Has it even been a week? Although honestly, once I'd met him, did I ever willingly consider a life without Sherlock?

"You really want to stay with me." Sherlock states, wonder in his voice. It's enough to make me want to turn and I do, folding my arms over his chest and propping my chin on my hands so I can look at him. He tilts his head forward so his eyes can meet mine.

"Obviously." I say, grinning at my ability to turn one of his phrases back on him. I love it when I get to do that.

Sherlock just stares at me, his eyes bright as the flicker over my face. I grin wider at the thought that they'll be doing that for the rest of my life.

"Call me an idiot." I say, remembering our first night together. "But I want you forever, Sherlock."

He pushes us up so we're sitting and I almost lose my balance, but he grabs me before I can and wraps me in a firm hug, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"Idiot," he whispers into my ear.

The day continues to pass in this pleasant manner, talking and kissing and basically all-encompassing closeness. I feel like we've found a spot of pure happiness, and my only fear is reality coming in and breaking the spell.

As the light filtering in through the window starts to fade – we never _did_ manage to get properly dressed – Sherlock picks up his violin, remembering my desire to hear him play. I relax in my chair and watch his lithe figure as he tunes the strings, his head tilted in concentration. After a moment he nods in satisfaction and then, barely glancing at the sheet of music on the stand, begins to play.

It starts out dark, with long notes and dissonant chords, but quickly picks up pace, leaving me to imagine nights spent running after murderers with danger around every corner. One moment it's jovial, the next frustrated, and though erratic the different melodies fit together to create one overarching theme.

As the tune progresses I think I detect the refrain, a few measures that reappear every so often, occasionally disguised but ever-present. I realize with a start that Sherlock wrote this himself, and I begin to wonder at his source of inspiration.

We've reached a turning point in the song. I never gave music so much thought, but I hear pain being sung through the strings. Pain and longing.

Sherlock steps toward the window as he plays and he becomes shadowed. I watch his outline, the graceful tilt of his neck and the smooth stroke of his arm.

The darkness fades from the sound and the tune regains its previous joy, though tainted somehow. I become frustrated at my inability to put words to the brilliance of what I'm hearing.

The song draws to a close and Sherlock holds out the last note, which hovers softly even after Sherlock removes his bow. I'm afraid to speak.

Eventually Sherlock turns to me, his eyebrows creased at my lack of response.

"What did you think?" he queries.

"That was…amazing." I blink. "Absolutely gorgeous, Sherlock. I have no idea how you do that."

Sherlock smiles slightly but doesn't offer anything more.

"What inspired it?" I ask, tilting my head curiously. Sherlock swings his bow lightly between two fingers, avoiding my gaze.

"Unimportant," he replies, reaching down and marking something on the music.

"I disagree." I frown.

Sherlock sighs. "It's not 'what,' it is 'who'."

I take a moment. "Who inspired it?" I'm questioning the word as much as the actual query, but Sherlock nods.

I wait.

"Who, then?"

"Really, John, you are of above-average intelligence."

"Right." I let that sink in. "Wait, me? Really?" There's no way I could inspire anything even remotely close to what I just heard.

"Of course." Sherlock sets his violin down and moves to his seat across from me. He leans back, setting his elbows on the armrests and folding his hands together. "The mere consideration of anyone else is ludicrous."

I recognize the compliment. I want to say it's undeserved, but that could be mistaken as a plea for further praise. "I'm honored."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitches. "You should be."

I grab the small pillow behind my back and throw it at him. He's unprepared, and it hits him square in the face. I laugh at his expression as the cushion falls away. Then Sherlock's shocked countenance slowly transforms to a wicked grin, and I'm suddenly afraid.

He starts to move and I leap out of my chair, making a dash for the other side of the room. His long legs and complete disregard for furniture renders him faster, however, and I can see he's going to cut me off.

I abruptly change direction, heading toward the stairs and taking them two at a time to my room. I've just made the doorway and am about to close the door behind me when Sherlock bursts in, barely slowing as he tackles me to the bed.

I let out a huff and have to immediately struggle to keep myself from being pinned and helpless. Sherlock may look wiry, but he's incredibly strong.

We wrestle for a minute, my military experience making up for my lack of size. I'm at the disadvantage because I'm on my back, but I manage to wrap my legs around his waist and immobilize his lower half. He reacts by locking my arms above my head. As much as I struggle, I cannot get them free from his grip.

We end up looking at each other, our faces even, and then my lips twitch and we burst out laughing.

"What are you two doing up there, making such a racket?" Our laughter stops and we both freeze as we hear Mrs. Hudson's voice. We stare at each other wide-eyed for a moment and then Sherlock calls back,

"Experiment, Mrs. Hudson!" His eyes sweep over me, taking in my bare chest, heavy breathing, and dilated pupils. "Probably not safe to enter!"

"Very well. You two have fun, now!"

"Oh, I intend to." Sherlock's voice is low in his throat and I feel my heart pick up in response. He's still got my arms trapped above me and he uses that to his advantage, lowering his head and capturing my lips with his. My fingers flex as I kiss him back, but the motion is purely instinctual as I have no hope of freeing them. I'm not necessarily keen to, either, especially when provided with a distraction such as Sherlock's lips and tongue.

It's safe to say our day of rest will end on a high note.

**A/N: So I've finished this year of college, which means I'm officially in summer break. However, for me that means work from 8-5. I apologize if these chapters come a little slower – my job requires me to look at a computer screen all day, so jumping on my laptop is not the first thing I want to do when I get home. I am still dedicated to this story, however, so have no fear of that! And thank you for your support; I cannot believe all the encouragement everyone has shown.**


	16. Atypical Normality

Chapter 16: Atypical Normality

John is already gone when I wake the next morning, leaving a conspicuous dent in the pillow next to me. I feel the mattress but it's cold – he's been gone a while, then.

Mentally I look ahead in my day, but with no case and John at work it looks dreary and dull. I may as well go back to sleep.

I roll over and close my eyes, but after fifteen seconds I realize I'm far too alert to have any hope of obtaining unconsciousness. I groan and get out of bed, grabbing my dressing gown that somehow made its way to the floor. I recall John's hands grasping my shoulders and back and my annoyance at the cloth, so I probably threw it off. Smiling slightly as I remember last night, one hand subconsciously reaches up to touch my lips.

My violin is the first thing my eyes focus on when I enter the living room, but I have no desire to play without John's presence. I again think back to last night, playing that song in full for the first time.

I based every note off our time together; poured my emotions through the one outlet people could never steal. My body betrays me sometimes in public, giving things away to those who don't deserve them, showing them more than just my mind. But when I play music I have absolute control on when and for whom I perform. I would never present that piece for anyone other than John.

He would probably get all sentimental over that fact, but it is the simple truth. No one else is worth showing that part of my life. I wrote it based on him, regardless, and it's painful enough to remember being without him when he's in the room, much less when I have no physical proof of his safety.

I find my phone and compose a text.

_To: John Watson_

_Bored._

I pace while I wait for a reply, my mind flying in several different directions. Oh, if only there was a good murder! Carter took away a lot of the fun by being so predictable once we figured out it was him.

My phone buzzes and I look at it eagerly. I realize I do not know how long his shift is, and perhaps he could be telling me he is on his way home. It's nearly afternoon already.

_No initials? I'm scared._

I find it difficult to read his tone through mere words, but my knowledge of John leads me to believe he is teasing. I smile slightly, although his words do not give promise of easing my monotony.

_How long until you return?_ It is useless to waste time bantering if he could be home engaging in much more pleasant activities.

I tap my fingers against my knee impatiently as I stare at the screen, waiting for John's response.

_At least a couple hours. I could leave early if I come in tomorrow._

_Do that._ My fingers type quickly, my desire to see him as soon as possible outweighing the option of seeing him more tomorrow. I may be upset with myself for this choice later, but I cannot find it within me to care at the moment.

_As you wish ;)_

My eyes narrow at my screen. It unnerves me to see that "emoticon," as I believe they are called, since John uses them so infrequently. This wink he has sent me must mean that his words are more than a simple affirmative statement.

_Are you referencing popular culture?_

I head to the kitchen to set up an experiment; I need something to distract me while John finishes up his remaining hours at the surgery.

_Look it up._

Frowning, I find John's computer and turn it on, noting he hasn't changed the password since the last time I hacked it (if you can call it that). I navigate to a search engine and type in "as you wish double meaning".

I skim the results, momentarily stumped by the title of "The Princess Bride," and a slow smile crosses my face as I realize his implication.

_Rather childish, John, don't you think?_ The smile on my face says otherwise, but I have a reputation to uphold. I receive John's reply and realize he sees right through me nonetheless.

_Shut up; you love it._

I shake my head slightly and have a passing desire to do some act to reinforce my masculinity. Labeling it as foolish, I return my mind to our conversation. I consider several replies before choosing the simplest one.

_True._

John doesn't respond, so I assume he's been distracted by a patient. I ignore the thought that he's distracted by a nurse or other doctor; this doubt comes from personal insecurity, not distrust in John, and it would only harm our relationship to give it any credence.

I work on my experiment, giving it less attention than usual as my preoccupied mind is alert for any sign of John's arrival. I realize I am acting far more clingy than I ever anticipated being, and this unnerves me somewhat.

_I do not have to rely on John for my happiness,_ I tell myself, putting as much conviction into the words as I can.

When the door creaks, indicating John's arrival, those words seem very pale indeed.

I almost go meet him at the entrance, but I maintain enough personal control to force myself to remain at my microscope. I look through the lens, but I see nothing.

"Sherlock?" John calls as he closes the door and hangs his jacket. He steps into view before I reply, and I lean away from my experiment and turn to face him.

He grins when our eyes meet, but there's a tiredness that wasn't there last time I saw him. I notice a small bloodstain on his trousers and the barest trace of a tremor in his hand, which disappears as he sees me.

"Are you alright?" I ask, my eyes probing his face as I search for answers. "Did they make it?"

John's smile falters and he rubs his face with his hands. When he looks at me he seems older.

"Yes, she did, but it was close."

I stand up, unsure of how to act. John watches me for a minute, waiting to see what I'll do, but I'm at a loss.

"What happened?" I finally ask. Something changes in John's eyes. Is that…disappointment? What did I do wrong?

John heads around me to grab the kettle. He keeps his back to me as he speaks, and I slowly retake my seat.

"A young girl was hit by a car. Hit-and-run." Reaching up, he retrieves two mugs from the cupboard. "Two broken ribs, a broken leg, a large gash on her head, and internal bleeding. At one point we had three different doctors working on her."

He leans forward as he waits for the water to boil, his arms braced against the counter and his head down. I want to comfort him and I feel I should, but I don't know how. I stand up again anyway and take a step toward him. If he senses my movement, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"But she made it." I encourage, taking another step closer. John's head nods.

"She made it," he agrees, letting out a sigh and lifting his head, still turned away from me. "And we have hope for a full recovery. But, Sherlock, when I say young girl…" his voice sounds tortured and, alarmed, I go closer and wrap my arms around him.

"She can't have been older than six. Can you imagine? Some driver hit a six year old girl and left her in the street to die. If that woman hadn't seen her and brought her in…" John shakes his head and then turns suddenly, pressing against my chest and returning my embrace.

He doesn't cry but I can tell he is shaken. John possesses so much empathy, sometimes I wonder how he can go about his life. He's so willing to take on the pain of others that I worry it is unhealthy. If he wasn't this way, though, would he have ever accepted me so fully?

"John." I don't know what to say to soothe him. "It will be okay."

"I know." John sighs and leans away from me, turning to prepare our tea. I let him go, unsure if I've acted correctly.

He carries our drinks to the couch, setting them on the coffee table and then sitting down with a sigh. Closing his eyes, he leans back and takes a deep breath.

I hesitate for just a moment before I sit next to him. I'm pleased that he's returned, but he's obviously not in the mood for any amorous activity. This experience has drained him.

I try to see it from John's point of view. The tragedy of a six-year-old child getting hit by a driver who then flees the scene rather than making sure she gets the treatment she needs. However, I find myself distracted by wondering the details of the scene: Where was the accident? Who saw it? Why was the girl in the street? Why did the driver drive off? What did the car look like?

I care far less about the pain of the girl and much more about solving the answers to who, what, where, how, and why.

I shake my head to rid myself of the questions and refocus on John. He's still sitting there listlessly, allowing his tea to get cold. I try to consider what he would do if our situations were reversed.

After a moment, inspiration strikes.

I slide away from him on the couch, putting just enough room between me and the armrest. John's eyes open slightly and I pat my thigh.

"Lay down." I command. The slightest smile crosses John's face as he follows my order, twisting so his feet are propped on the armrest of the couch and his head is settled in my lap. I stroke a hand through his hair and see a bit of the tension ease out of his face.

John's voice is quiet when he speaks. "We nearly lost her. Her heart almost stopped twice, and if she had been any other blood type…"

His eyes close and my hand settles into a steady rhythm.

After a moment of quiet, during which I examine John, feeling curiously protective, he opens his eyes and asks,

"Why are you doing this, Sherlock? Not that I don't appreciate it, I just didn't expect you to be so…" he trails off.

"Patient?" I smirk.

John returns my grin. "Yeah."

"This is what one does when in a relationship, is it not?" I shift; my leg is beginning to fall asleep. "You come home distressed from work, and I comfort you."

John's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "It's just not what I was expecting."

I decide not to take offense. "You're welcome." I lay my hand along the side of his face.

Finally the light returns to John's eyes, and they glint mischievously. He reaches up and grasps the front of my shirt, pulling me down while simultaneously lifting himself up so we meet in the middle.

_Much better_, I think as we kiss; this is the welcome home I've been waiting for.

We can't hold that position for long, though, and all too soon we have to break away to relieve our necks.

I seem to have whetted John's appetite, however, because he's much more enthusiastic now. He sits up quickly and moves to face me, swinging his left leg across my lap so he's effectively straddling me.

I raise an eyebrow at him and he grins before resuming kissing me, pressing me against the couch.

John's mouth moves to my neck, and he's leaving a trail of kisses and – well, that's quite interesting, isn't it? That's new. Now there's a bit of nipping and licking.

It almost hurts, but in a good way. I want to say "stop," but I don't actually want him to stop. That's a strange impulse. I don't have time to question it though, because now he's – wait, what is he? – _oh_.

I think my brain may have shorted out.

John pulls back, looking at me in concern.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his eyes anxiously scanning my face. "I didn't mean to; I think I got a little overexcited."

I stand up, gently pushing John off but grabbing his hand as I go to look in the mirror. He stands next to me and we both examine the new addition to the skin along my neck.

"It's, uh," John rubs the back of his neck with the hand I'm not currently holding. "It's going to get a little more obvious than that."

I reach up and gently stroke the lightly throbbing area.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John stutters slightly saying my name. "I'm sorry."

"No…" I say slowly, a smile rising unbidden to my lips. "Don't. It's – it's fine."

I lower my hand but cannot take my eyes off the mirror. "You marked me," I say, slightly dazed.

John lets out an embarrassed chuckle. "Well, I'd prefer the term 'love bite'. But yeah, I did."

"Do you do this a lot?" I have to suppress a sudden surge of jealousy.

"No, not really." John is smiling now, too, since he's realized I'm not upset. "Like I said, I got a little overexcited."

I nod, and then I'm overcome by an unusual desire. I take a moment of reflection, during which John watches me curiously.

"You alright?" he asks as my silence stretches on.

"Do you know how to dance, John?" I query. It seems to me that a man as…flirtatious as John would have some knowledge of dance, but I also realize that I cannot answer my own question.

John's eyes drop from mine and my eyebrows lift in surprise.

"No," he mutters. I suppress a grin.

"Well, then," I say, grabbing his free hand and placing it appropriately. "I'll teach you."

"You know how to dance?" I step back as he asks and he follows my lead.

"Of course. I never know when I'll have to infiltrate a wedding or such event where dancing is expected."

John laughs, quickly settling into the rhythm I've established. "I should have known."

We smile at each other but then John stumbles, his feet catching on a loose item on the floor.

I catch him easily (I was anticipating it) and we laugh. And as I look John, his smile, his eyes, his hands resting in mine, my brain floods with chemicals and I realize I've found the natural high for which I've constantly been searching.

...

A single man melts into the shadows, his attire entirely black. He makes his way quickly down an alley, avoiding the main streets and the possible recognition therein. Taking a detour to discourage followers, he eventually finds the residence he is searching for.

Because of his occupation, it had taken a while for the news to reach his ears. Once he heard of Carter's fate, however, the plan began. There would be repercussions. An act against Carter, after all, was an act against him.

His eyes narrow as he stares up at the flat, the curtains dimming the warm light within. Shadows move inside, dancing to an unheard tune. The shorter stumbles but is caught by the hands of his partner, and their laughter reaches down to the man below.

His lip curls at the sound. Sweeping his eyes over the residence once more, taking in the missing details, he turns to leave, his plan solidifying in his mind.

_Tomorrow_, he thinks, avoiding a car as he crosses the road and slips into the safety of the shadows once more. _Tomorrow I get my revenge._

His fury is so great that the imprint remains when he closes his eyes, reminding him of his goal.

_221B_


	17. Tick

Chapter 17: Tick

7:30 a.m. –

My alarm goes off and I quickly silence it, trying not to wake Sherlock. I glance at his face and see that, at least for the moment, I have succeeded.

I carefully extricate myself from his embrace; who would have known that Sherlock Holmes is such a cuddler in his sleep? I get dressed quietly and take one last look at his sleeping face, brushing my fingers along his forehead.

I grab a quick breakfast and take a cab to work, hoping these hours will pass quickly. Leaving early yesterday was acceptable, but I can't do anything like that today. I'll have to exercise more willpower if Sherlock decides to text me again.

I had been worried about my reception yesterday when I got home, considering the mood I was in, but Sherlock was surprisingly considerate. That is certainly a reaction I would like to reinforce.

I finally get to work and settle in to begin my day.

8:57 a.m. –

I take a sip of my coffee, spreading out the paperwork I have to complete on my desk. I almost groan at the extensive amount, but instead I just take a deep breath and get started. This is going to take several hours, and I find myself hoping for a distraction.

I momentarily wonder what Sherlock is up to. Sleeping, probably. I find myself daydreaming about being home with him, and I have to shake my head to refocus.

_Work, John_, I command myself. Sighing, I pull another form toward me, writing down a patient's name.

10:12 a.m. –

I've been writing for over an hour, and my hand is beginning to cramp. I decide to take a break and lean back, stretching my muscles. I glance at my phone, which I laid on the corner of my desk. Nothing from Sherlock yet. This isn't necessarily unusual, just a disappointment.

I decide to take the initiative, typing:

_Find anything interesting to do today?_

There isn't an immediate response, which leads me to believe he may have actually found something to do with his time. However, I can't shake this feeling in my gut that everything isn't completely right.

I put it out of my mind. We've had a few days to recover from everything with Carter; it's just the paranoia that comes with peace in our lives, that's all.

I ignore the thought that it could be anything more than that.

11:00 a.m. –

It's a little early for lunch, but I'm hungry and I don't want to look at any more papers. I run out and get a toasted sandwich from a nearby coffee bar, relishing the slight bit of exercise after sitting at my desk for hours. If I didn't have my life with Sherlock, I'd worry about getting soft.

As I eat I think of Sherlock again, and I hope he's feeding himself. We never got around to eating yesterday, and I'm fairly certain he didn't make anything while I was at work. I resolve to take him out tonight.

Angelo's comes to mind as our first option, but I realize we might have trouble keeping our secret from that man. I'll have to ask Sherlock his preference.

11:45 a.m. –

I'm nearly finished eating when a patient enters – all the other doctors are tied up, so I tell her to have a seat and I'll be right with her.

"What seems to be the problem?" I ask after throwing my trash away and getting a quick drink from the water fountain.

My patient is a young-ish woman, long hair. I suppose she's pretty, but I've found my judgment in that area has become increasingly skewed the longer I spend with Sherlock.

"My stomach," she winces. "It really hurts."

I pull on some gloves as I look over her. She appears very ill, her face ashen and both her arms wrapped around her middle. Possible diagnoses run through my mind, but I start with the beginning.

"When did it start to feel this way?"

12:30 p.m. –

After we determine her problem was bad food poisoning and I give her some remedies I find myself back at my desk, filling out more paperwork. I frown at the stack of pages in front of me, wishing for something to alleviate my boredom.

_I sound like Sherlock_, I think to myself with a smile. People who spend an extended amount of time together do take on the other's traits in some ways, but never before have I seen the change take place in myself. It makes me wonder how else he has influenced me, or more interestingly, how I may have influenced him.

I'd like to think that Sherlock has absorbed some of my compassion. I've noticed that, subconsciously or not, he _has_ started glancing at me before saying something that is particularly rude. He has even, on rare occasions, censored himself without any of my input.

2:00 p.m. –

I decide it's been long enough since I sent my last text that I can text again. It is very strange that Sherlock never replied to my last message. He always replies; he constantly needs to get the last word. Sometimes I won't reply just so he can have the satisfaction of being the last to send a message.

It could be nothing. But I can't shake the feeling that started this morning: _something is wrong_.

I hesitate as I try to come up with the words. Surely Sherlock wouldn't be ignoring me? I lick my lips as I consider, then I realize this is ridiculous; I should just call him.

The phone rings out, and soon enough I hear,

"You've reached Sherlock Holmes. Make it interesting and make it quick, otherwise don't bother."

In the background I hear my own voice, "Sherlock!"

"…Thank you."

Then the tone sounds.

"Hey, Sherlock, it's me. Just calling about dinner – do you want to go out, or would you like me to pick something up?" I pause, not wanting my anxiety to be evident. "I'll be headed home soon; call me if you decide."

This isn't the first time I've left a message for Sherlock. There are reasons why he wouldn't answer his phone. The problem is that they include very dangerous possibilities.

I hope he's lost in an experiment.

3:02 p.m. –

My shift ended two minutes ago and I grab everything as quickly as possible. I need to get home and put to rest this nagging worry I've had all day. Maybe I'll even manage to get Sherlock to laugh about it.

Traffic is awful, and I find myself anxiously tapping my index finger against my thigh. I stare out the window, mentally urging the cab to go faster and biting my lip every time it has to stop.

_You're being ridiculous, John_, I tell myself.

I don't believe it.

3:54 p.m. –

I take the stairs two at a time, calling "Sherlock?" as I go.

There's no answer, and a pit forms in my stomach.

I quickly search the flat, but it's empty. He could have gone out, but he would have taken his phone with him. I look around and find it relatively quickly (considering the clutter he leaves), lying on a small table. I pick it up and see the icons indicating he's got two waiting messages, both from me.

Getting more worried by the second, I head to my room, thinking I may be able to track his movements from this morning.

The covers are disheveled, but I don't let myself jump to conclusions. Sherlock has yet to make my bed (though his is normally well made; probably because he rarely sleeps there).

His pillow is on the floor, though, and that's odd. I try to remember if it was that way when I left this morning. I'm not sure.

I glance around the rest of the room, trying to see it the way Sherlock would. He'd know immediately what had happened, were our situations reversed.

I pick up the pillow and almost miss the tiny syringe. It's clear, so it blends into the carpet.

It's empty, with the plunger pushed all the way down. I pick it up gingerly and see traces remnant of some kind of liquid along the sides.

I pull out my phone, dialing without taking my eyes off the syringe. Sherlock wouldn't inject himself – just recently he told me he wouldn't take any more drugs.

"Hello?" Lestrade picks up, his voice casual but interested.

"Greg, hey," I have to swallow because my mouth suddenly goes dry. "Listen, I think something happened to Sherlock."

"What do you mean?" Immediately his tone shifts, becoming sharper and more alert.

"Well, he didn't reply when I texted or called, and now I've found a syringe in – " I realize with wide eyes that I almost said "my room." I cough. " – where he was sleeping."

Lestrade doesn't comment on my slip. "And he's not anywhere in the flat?"

"No, I checked." I hold back my frustration, knowing Lestrade needs to get an accurate picture of what's happened. Honestly, though, would I call him if I hadn't checked whether or not Sherlock was in the loo?

That thought makes me realize how worried I am. I only get that rudely sarcastic when put under a lot of stress – something not-so-good I picked up from Sherlock.

"Is there anything else there that seems out of place?"

I look around, trying to channel my inner consulting detective. Clothes, where they normally are; no spills on the carpet; had the door been opened slightly when I got back? I hadn't noticed.

I clench my hands in frustration. Sherlock would have noticed.

A chill runs down my spine as I look closer at the carpet next to the door. There appears to be a very faint imprint of a boot; I know for a fact that neither I nor Sherlock have any kind of footwear that would leave that mark.

"Hold on," I say to Lestrade, pulling my phone away from my ear so I can take a picture. I hear his voice but I can't understand what he's saying. I roll my eyes; did I not _just_ tell him to hold on?

"What did you say?" I ask as I return it to my ear, heading down the stairs and into the main room.

"I said, what did you find? Also, I think you should probably come down here." There's something strange in his tone.

"Is Sherlock with you?" I have little hope for this, but that would explain the way he's talking. I look around, but I never took off my jacket or let go of my keys, so I'm ready to leave.

Just before I go I remember my gun in its drawer and I stop to get it, tucking it to the small of my back and hoping I'm in time to make a difference.

I stop to lock the door behind me and then leave Baker Street, listening to Lestrade as I try to hail a cab.

"No, Sherlock's not with us. But get down here and we'll help you figure out what happened." His tone makes me feel like a child being left out of the adults' conversation, and I'm trying to figure out what he thinks occurred.

"Oh, I found a boot imprint by the door," I failed to tell him this when he asked. "It's not either of ours, so…"

"You do have a lot of visitors, John." Lestrade reminds me. I roll my eyes again as I finally get into a cab and tell the driver where to go.

"Not in that part of the flat." I inform him. He's silent for a minute, and after a bit I realize someone else is talking to him.

"John says Sherlock is missing. He found a syringe." I hear Lestrade say. I grit my teeth, suddenly understanding what they think happened.

"He did NOT take drugs," I say hotly, ignoring the glance the cabbie throws back at me.

"John…" I have had enough with that tone.

"No, Lestrade. I swear to you, Sherlock did not self-administer from this syringe."

"Can you tell?" I bite my tongue. There's not really any way to prove how a drug was given from a syringe. If I could see the entry point, it's a definite possibility. But not from the tool.

"I can't give you proof – " I admit, intending to say more, but Lestrade cuts me off.

"We'll talk more when you get here."

"Fine." I end the call without waiting for his response and examine the syringe, trying to see if it gives anything away in regard to its use. Nothing. It looks brand new, used only once.

Sherlock doesn't have any new syringes. I know that, but that's not proof. I can hear Lestrade now – "Sherlock can buy things without you knowing, John."

I realize it's going to be more difficult than I anticipated finding Sherlock. If I have the Yard going into it with the impression Sherlock is roaming high then they're not going to give my ideas any consideration.

Trying to ignore the horrible images flashing through my mind of what people could be doing to Sherlock, I instead try to focus on _who_ would be doing it to him.

As I near the end of my ride, there's only one name I can think of. The problem is, we've already caught this guy.

4:41 p.m. –

"Lestrade," I say, striding into his office. He has Sally Donovan with him, and I want to groan in frustration.

"John," Lestrade nods at me, his expression serious.

I keep quiet, instinctively going to parade rest as I survey them. Lestrade looks almost sad, Donovan just pitying. I clench my jaw and raise an eyebrow; it's better to let them say what they want so I can ignore it and get on with finding Sherlock.

"You didn't know Sherlock before, John." Sally finally speaks, and I give her my full attention.

"Before what?" I ask.

"Before you." Lestrade clarifies. I blink in surprise.

"Enlighten me," I address Sally again.

She takes a step forward. "He was very good at hiding it, how high he was all the time. In some ways, it made him more brilliant." A quick shrug.

"In the brief time between where he quit and met you, he was definitely slower in his deductions. Still miles ahead of everyone else," her head dips, acknowledging the unsaid "obviously" in her statement, "but nothing to the caliber of what he was when he was shooting up."

I flinch at her words, unwilling to imagine a Sherlock addicted to drugs. It goes against everything I know about him now. But people change. The current status of our relationship is proof of that.

"Until he met you," she continues, confusion on her face. "You were amazed by him, so you probably didn't notice how much we shared that amazement. To us he was high again, solving all those crimes in such quick and fantastic ways."

She pauses, as though she's not sure she wants to say the next bit. "That's one of the reasons we felt comfortable invading his – well, both of yours – flat for drugs busts. It took us months to realize you were the change. Whatever those drugs gave him to make him better, he found in you."

This isn't what I was prepared for at all. I anticipated an attack on Sherlock's character, not an appraisal of my association with him. I'm still angry, though. Sherlock is missing and _nothing _she is saying is convincing me he decided today was a good day to relapse.

"That's all very interesting, but why the _hell_ do you think this means Sherlock has gone back to drugs?" I take a step forward, unable to stand still.

"All I'm hearing is people stuck in the past, unable to trust the man who has proven himself to you time and time again and is now in _danger_ while you're refusing to do anything about it!" My voice is quite loud by the end, but I'm tired of people treating Sherlock like he's inhuman and unworthy of normal consideration.

"John, calm down." Lestrade says, one hand rising up like he's going to restrain me.

I let out a bark of laughter. Calm, right, while my Sherlock is out there somewhere, with who-knows-what being done to him. He could be _dead_.

I take a deep breath. I have to be rational if I'm going to get their help, and I need their help.

"Sherlock no longer uses drugs. He made a passing remark very recently about how he never plans to use drugs again. So even entertaining the idea is an absolute waste of time." I take a moment to look them each in the eye. "Absolute. We need focus on finding who could want to take him and where they would go. That's it."

Neither of them look convinced, but I'm done standing here talking about it.

"Here," I hold out the syringe. "Test this. Let me know what your specialists say. I promise you will find something designed to knock someone out cold – even if he _did_ self-administer, he wouldn't have been able to get very far before going unconscious. And I checked."

Lestrade motions for Sally to take the syringe and she does, laying a hand on my shoulder. I shake it off.

"We're just trying to help, John," she says softly.

I'm in no mood for this. "Really? You're doing it wrong."

She leaves.

I face Lestrade, crossing my arms.

"Are you going to help me, Detective Inspector?" I ask, looking him in the eye. "Or are you going to let your biggest asset die because you didn't believe in him?"

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade responds immediately. But then he sighs. "But what you said before was right. I don't completely trust him."

I wait.

"Fine. What do you think you need?"

5:50 p.m. –

"Anything yet?" I ask one of the officers who is making calls to those out on patrol, asking if they've seen any suspicious activity or anyone resembling Sherlock today.

He shakes his head and I turn away, running a hand through my hair in frustration. We've been at this too long. I don't even want to imagine what they're doing to Sherlock, if he's even still alive.

_Stop it_, I demand of myself. _You can't think that way._

I really can't. I need to be able to function to find Sherlock, and imagining him dead is extremely counterproductive.

"Take me to Carter." I tell Lestrade for what feels like the hundredth time.

"I told you, John, I can't do that."

"Why not?" Carter is the only one who could tell us, I'm sure of it.

"He has lawyers. No police are allowed to talk to him."

Always the same excuse. "I'm not of the police."

"John, it wouldn't be correct of me to let you do that."

I place my hands on either side of his desk, finally finding the right argument after countless times repeating this conversation. "Then stop worrying about doing what's _correct_ and start worrying about doing what's _right_."

We stare at each other for a long minute.

Finally, Lestrade sighs. "I can't tell you where he is." I'm about to argue, but he pulls out a pen and starts writing. "I need you to take this to Sergeant Donovan."

I take the paper before speaking, realizing he may be avoiding getting his actions caught on camera.

I'm right: the paper has directions to Carter's cell and the request that I do other things before finding it, making it appear I found it on my own.

I nod shortly at him and then go find Sally, showing her the paper and telling her to keep people away while I'm there. She looks at me doubtfully but listens – the labs are still trying to find the identity of the substance in the syringe, but she's decided to at least humor me.

After dithering around and feeling like a total arse, I finally decide it's been long enough and I make my way to Carter's cell, purposefully taking wrong turns and looking around like I'm searching on my own. I decide not to question my good fortune that Carter is being held here and not elsewhere. It's the least fortune could give me, after what I'm sure is absolute hell for Sherlock.

"How's the arm, John?" I hear Carter's voice before I see him; he's sitting back in the corner of the cell, hiding in the shadows.

"Fine. Though I can't say the same about Sherlock."

Carter clicks his tongue softly. "Oh, I should have known. I'm sorry I didn't warn you. Well…" As he comes closer I see a wide grin stretched across his face. "Maybe I'm not."

I don't put up with the preamble. "Tell me where he is."

"Why would I do that?" Carter just looks at me. "Give up my friends? Plus they can be rather…overenthusiastic. He's probably dead by this point, anyway"

"Congratulations." I pull out my gun and point it directly between his eyes. His expression makes the radical change from smug to scared. "You say he's dead? You've just turned me into a man who has nothing left to lose." I cock the hammer.

Carter backs away but I step closer, leaving just enough room between me and the bars so he can't reach out and try to stop me.

"You have nowhere to go." I inform him, steadily following his movements. "I have very good aim."

"You wouldn't."

"You really want to test that theory?" He's in my sights. "You should know, the first night I spent with Sherlock I killed a man to save him. What makes you think time has lessened that instinct?"

"If you kill me, you won't be able to find him."

"He's dead anyway, you said so yourself. I want his body. Now you can either give it to me," my finger tightens on the trigger and he flinches. "Or you can join him."

"Alright, alright!" Carter holds his hands up in surrender. "He's at a warehouse."

"Where?" I ask dangerously.

He tells me, and my heart sinks. That's at least an hour and a half away.

6:10 p.m. –

I'm in a police car with Lestrade and we have the lights going and everything, but it's not fast enough. No matter how many people we pass or how many speed limit signs we ignore, I can feel each second ticking by with excruciating consistency. I need to be there already. It has taken me beyond too long to do this; Sherlock would have already found me and still had time for us to go to dinner, had I been the one who was taken.

I look at my watch and compare it to the passing landscape; we're still an hour away.

"Faster," I urge, knowing it won't do any good but unable to stop myself.

"If I go any faster we'll crash." Lestrade says tightly, focusing on the road. I stay silent so he can put all his attention on driving.

I look out the window, willing the car to break the laws of physics.

_We're coming, Sherlock_.

7:13 p.m. –

We finally arrive and my heart is pounding as adrenaline floods through me. Along with as many from the force as I could bring (that is, whoever I could get to throw regulation out the window), we also have two ambulances and, unfortunately, three reporters that figured out what was going on and doggedly followed us all the way here.

For such a large group we're surprisingly quiet and we get into position, surrounding the building, cuffs at the ready.

During the drive Lestrade told me I would have to stay in a car, and I informed him there was no way in hell that was going to happen. He relented after a very brief argument that involved me reminding him of my credentials as both a soldier and a doctor.

We opt for picking the lock rather than breaking down the door, giving us whatever small element of surprise that provides.

Our man finally gets the door open and Lestrade and I nod. Every officer is on his toes.

They pull it open and I rush inside. What I see almost makes me sick.

There's Sherlock, alright. But he doesn't look like Sherlock very much anymore.

He's suspended in a Christ-like approximation, his body spread out as he's held up by the ropes binding his wrists to the tips of long poles. His legs are tied together and his head lolls against his chest. I pray he's just unconscious.

There's blood everywhere. It's running down his torso, and though I'm far away I can see the marks the whips left. It's also matted in his hair and pooled on the floor.

I take several steps toward him, close to breaking into a run, when I'm tackled from the side and skid along the floor, my breath knocked out of me. I twist for my attacker, reaching for my gun, but he knocks my hand aside and swings his other fist round, hitting me on the temple.

Black dots swarm in front of my eyes but I push past them, kicking out as I try to get leverage. I connect solidly with his shin and as he winces I respond with a punch of my own, an uppercut intended to render him unconscious.

I manage to land the punch, but his eyes remain open. His hand grips my stitches and I feel one of them rip.

Keeping Sherlock in the forefront of my mind, it's easy to ignore my pain. Bracing myself, I head-butt my attacker, taking him by surprise. He's quite a bit larger than me, but I don't think he expected me to fight back so intensely.

My head knocks him away and I scramble backward, hurriedly getting to my feet. I glance around and see I've brought enough policemen with me – the other three torturers are cuffed and contained. As I'm getting my breath back two more officers grab the man I was fighting and cuff him as well.

He and I make eye contact and he spits at my feet, blood mixing with saliva.

There are many things I want to say, and the gun at my back is very tempting, but I turn and walk away. Now the only thing on my mind is that I have to get to Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson, you're bleeding!" A young man runs up to me, his clothes indicating he came with one of the ambulances.

"I'm fine, where's Sherlock?" It appears they got him down while I was busy fighting.

"He's getting treated, sir. And you need to be, too."

"Take me to him." I say, facing the boy head on. His eyes widen as he takes me in, and I realize how terrible I must look. I feel blood running down the side of my head – the man was wearing a ring, which cut me when he made contact.

"Let me get you patched up, then I'll take you right to him."

I'm going to argue, but I'm so relieved he's okay that I let the boy lead me to the ambulance that isn't Sherlock's. As they take care of my head I point out my ripped stitches and they wrap up my arm, instructing me to go to the hospital and get them fixed.

I am a perfect patient, nodding and agreeing and indicating I'm listening. But what I'm actually doing is looking for Sherlock, trying to see past the swarm of bodies and planning my route if I have to run past them. I understand that I need to be treated, but they don't understand that I _need_ to see Sherlock and prove to myself that he's going to live.

7:59 p.m. –

"Where's John?" I grin; even beaten and bloody, Sherlock can make himself loud enough to be heard. He sounds hoarse, but it's him. "No, stop helping me and find him."

_You stubborn man,_ I think fondly. _You beautiful, brilliant, stubborn man._

"I have to go," I tell the ambulancemen, waving off the ice pack they want me to hold to my head. One of them tries to grab my shoulder but I shake him off easily, heading toward where I heard Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock?" I call as a group of officers pass by me, constructing my view. I edge past them and see the lights of the other ambulance. I follow it down and, though he's far away, I know it's Sherlock sitting there.

His head is swiveling around, searching for the source of my voice.

"John?" he responds. I grin, ready to collapse with relief. Sherlock's going to be alright, he's saying my name.

I jog over to him, ignoring the way each steps makes my head pound.

Sherlock looks over and we lock eyes. He moves to stand but falters, unable to hold his own weight. My chest constricts at the thought of his pain.

His eyes don't show that pain, though. All I see is love as he looks at me and I know I will always do whatever it takes to get him back.

"Hey," I smile as I reach him, one hand reaching out before realizing we have an audience, including but not limited to Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson (what can I say, I was worried).

"John." His voice is serious and he doesn't share my hesitation. He reaches out with his left arm, and I realize with horror that his right wrist is broken. There are men trying to help him but he shoots them a glare and they back off, giving us a little space.

His fingers find mine and he pulls me closer, wincing as the action stretches his skin. They've cleaned him up a lot already, but several of his wounds are still bleeding and the rest (minus a few scabs) are red and raw. The lacerations across his chest look incredibly painful, and as I examine closer I see bruises forming around his throat. Both his wrists are rubbed raw from the ropes, and I wince when I see acid burns on his legs and arms.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what did they do to you?" My free hand reaches toward his face tentatively; I don't want to cause him any more pain.

"It doesn't matter." He's so incredibly flippant about it that I want to yell, but his eyes are bright and blue as they lock onto mine and I see sincerity so deep my breath catches in my throat.

"John." Still ignoring our witnesses, who I hear muttering about our entwined fingers, Sherlock raises our hands so he can brush his knuckles against my cheek.

8:22 p.m. –

"What, Sherlock?" I ask, searching his face. Is he…smiling? There's a twitch in his lips that would indicate so, if it wasn't so absurd after the ordeal he's been through.

Sherlock's low, carrying voice responds, very soft, but very clear:

"I love you."


	18. Tock

**~~WARNING~~ This chapter contains descriptions of torture. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not feel required to read. These descriptions start at 11:00 a.m. and stop at 6:10 p.m. If you choose to avoid those passages, or if you choose not to read this chapter at all, you will not miss any major plot details. If at any point you become uncomfortable reading this, please stop. You will be able to continue the story without any major repercussions.**

**Story Note: This takes place simultaneously with John's chapter "Tick."**

Chapter 18 – Tock

7:30 a.m. –

I am outside.

The trees are losing their leaves, greens and yellows littering the ground. I step lightly; it is crucial to avoid crushing the dead foliage.

Why is it crucial? That is illogical.

Ah, I must be dreaming. I stop walking and look around, realizing the details are blurred. How did I get here? I can't remember.

Yes, definitely a dream.

The wind blows, brushing against me. Well…_that_ feels real. My hair tangles and leaves rush past, occasionally catching on my legs.

Okay, so I'm 89% sure I'm dreaming.

Suddenly it goes dark; the sun has gone out. It's a soothing black, though, and my other senses are working perfectly.

Fingers brush against my forehead, and my mind supplies _John_, but I cannot be sure if it is real or imagined.

Perhaps it is both.

8:57 a.m. –

Something is wrong. I wake up slowly, identifying the problem.

Voices.

There are people here. People who should not be.

I open my eyes and move to get up, but the owners of the voices are closer than I thought. They see me alert and they grab me, pinning me down. One man grabs my legs; two others hold my arms. All three are masked.

I feel a syringe fall from the crease in my elbow; that's why they sounded farther away. Searching quickly, I see where it fell, just to the side of the bed.

I struggle against them, but I can already feel the drug taking effect.

"Get the syringe!" One of them barks. My arm is released as he follows orders. I use that opportunity to retaliate, clawing in an attempt to get my other arm free.

"I can't find it!"

"Leave it, then!" the man I'm hurting sounds out of breath. "I can't – hold him – much longer."

The third man returns to subdue my arm, but just before he does I manage to lock my pillow with my elbow. They pull me from bed, my vision fading fast from the drug, but I manage to drop the pillow so it lands over the syringe.

Just before I lose consciousness I think, _John_.

10:12 a.m. –

The first thing I become aware of is an uncomfortable straining in my shoulders. I open my eyes blearily and realize I'm being suspended by my arms, which are tightly lashed to the tips of poles on either side of my body. I tug experimentally, but the knots hold.

My mind is getting sharper, and I take stock of my situation. I'm in what appears to be a warehouse; it's a large room, with stacks of unmarked boxes and drab grey walls. My feet are tied together at the ankles and my feet just barely brush the floor, making it difficult (but not impossible) to get my weight off of my arms.

I'm shirtless, as well. My captors didn't change my clothing, so all I'm wearing is my pyjama bottoms. My naked feet try to find purchase on the concrete floor.

There's no one around. I try to bend my knees and pull my legs up, but the ropes tying my ankles together are connected to a loop jutting from floor, stopping me.

Already my neck feels stiff, and a short wave of nausea reminds me I haven't eaten in over 24 hours.

I tug at my arm restraints again; the one on my right feels a little looser than the one on my left. With time, I may be able to create enough space to get that hand free.

There's still no one around, so I begin. The silence makes me uneasy.

11:00 a.m. –

There is a discernible difference in the tightness of the binding on my right wrist.

I'm about to congratulate myself with a break when two men enter, their faces covered by black stocking masks. They are similar in height, though one is thicker than the other. A whip is attached to that individual's belt, and I see the outline of some sort of phial in the other's pocket. My eyes narrow.

"Hello," I call, realizing I must keep them from seeing my progress. "I thought you'd forgotten me here."

"You're going to wish we had." The thicker one says, in what I assume is an attempt to be menacing. I am unimpressed.

"Shut up," his companion reprimands. I smile.

He sees me. "What are you laughing at?"

"I am not laughing," I respond, ignoring the burning sensation from rubbing my wrist against the rope. "I am merely appreciating the change of exposition. There's only so long one can stare at a blank wall."

"How long have you been awake?" They stop in front of me, barely three feet away. I ponder the question. Perhaps they did not take my history with drugs into consideration when they injected me. I have quite a tolerance.

"Five, ten minutes." I lie. "Though that always feels longer when nothing interesting is going on."

Through their masks I see distrust, but they don't question my reply. Instead they remain silent, watching me. I tire quickly of their scrutiny, but I am aware of what the whip and phial indicate. I do not speak, either.

"Carter said we can't kill you." The thinner one who acts as leader finally says. "He didn't say you need to be whole when we deliver you." I analyze his tone of voice, the shifts in his body. Hmmm…

"Interesting. You do realize he's in jail, don't you?"

"We have a plan for that."

"Oh, do tell." I raise an eyebrow mockingly, trying to provoke them.

The whip-holder gets excited. "Yeah, we have men working on getting their way in. And then we'll escape by – "

"I thought I told you to _shut up_!" The other's body language indicates he's about to hurt his companion.

If they're hurting each other, that means they aren't hurting me. "Let the man speak."

"Yeah, let me speak!" He really is stupid, isn't he? I stop myself from smirking, which isn't too difficult as the pain in my shoulders becomes harder to ignore. "I have opinions, too, you know!"

"That's not why you're here." The leader's voice is low, dangerous. "If you can't do your job, we can terminate your association."

His companion mumbles, " 'terminate my association,' " and I can see him figuring out the meaning. His eyes widen as he understands.

"I'll do my job." He's submissive now. He pulls off a ring and places it in his pocket before reaching for the whip.

"Wait," I say, thinking quickly. He doesn't pause. "Don't you think – " Pain explodes across my back as the whip strikes, breaking the skin in several places. I clamp my mouth shut to keep from crying out.

"Don't I think what?" he mocks, striking me again before I can reply. "Do I think you're helpless?" Another lash. "Useless?" Lash.

I'm twisting with each hit, unable to stop the reflexive action. My attempts at escape are futile, of course. I am at his mercy.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." He puts his mouth to my ear, and I flinch away. "Yes, you are."

Every lash is preceded by a derogatory comment. He lacks imagination, and before long he begins repeating himself.

I fix an image of John in front of my eyes and try to ignore the blood that is slowly painting my body scarlet.

11:45 a.m. –

I'm clinging to consciousness and gasping for breath when the whipping stops. He eventually tired of my back and switched to my chest, tearing long angry lines along my skin.

"Had…enough?" I manage to say, forcing my eyes open. My torturer is also breathing heavily, the exertion tiring him.

The leader – I dub him Thug 1 in my head – laughs.

"You're a feisty one, aren't you?"

I lift my head to look at him. "Have you done this to many others?"

"Some," he clasps his hands behind his back, grinning as he examines Thug 2's handiwork. "No one as deserving as you, however."

"Why do I," I pause for breath, "deserve this?"

"You've disrupted the status quo. You find things that are never meant to be found. The criminal market is very large, Mr. Holmes, and it used to thrive. Only you make the connections that catch the ones who would otherwise get away."

"So…" my mind is fuzzy from the pain. "So this is recompense for crashing your party, is it? It's not merely just you…trying to impress your lover?"

"What?" Thug 2 is confused, but Thug 1 looks stricken. As much as one can look so through a black mask.

"Oh, didn't you know?" My eyes move to Thug 2. "Your friend there is in love with Carter. Has been for a while." I'm taking a leap based on the little body language I managed to read, but it honestly doesn't make a difference if I'm wrong.

I address Thug 1 once more. "Do you think saving him and delivering me will show him your devotion? Make him want to stop screwing women?"

"Shut UP!" In two strides he's in front of me, grabbing my jaw with his hand. My words were intended to enrage, and they worked. "You think you can speak to me that way? I know what you do behind closed doors, Sherlock Holmes. You really think anyone still believes you and Doctor Watson are 'just friends'?"

He releases my jaw, but then punches me. My head snaps to the side. Maybe that was a poor choice.

"I don't…care…what you believe." I reply, twisting my neck before bringing my head back to face him. "I can see that feeling is not reciprocated."

I take a moment to consider my next words. I've gone this far already. "Much like Carter's affections."

For a moment I'm sure he's going to punch me again, but instead he pulls a dark cloth from his back pocket and stuffs it in my mouth, gagging me.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Holmes." He places his hand against my chest and I groan into the cloth as shooting pain radiates from his touch, racing up my wounds. "After we're through with you, we'll find your doctor."

He then turns and walks away, wiping my blood on his pants. After a moment Thug 2 jogs to catch up with him.

I'm left to my pain, new worry for John invading my thoughts.

12:30 p.m. –

When my torturers return I am surprised to see a woman has joined them. Her face is covered as well, but her body clearly gives her away.

"Oh, you've really done a number on him, haven't you boys?" she asks brightly. I cannot place the voice; I'm sure I've never heard it before.

"Yes'm," the two men fall in behind her as the three walk toward me. I blink at them, spots of color obstructing my vision.

"And what's this?" she points to the mark on my neck – John's 'love bite.' "Looks like someone had a good time."

Confusion in the eyes of the men, but they don't speak.

The woman reaches out one manicured hand to stroke my cheek and down my neck. She pauses at the mark, pressing her thumb against it.

"Yes, this will do nicely." Her other hand joins the first and she wraps her fingers around my neck. I know what's coming, but I'm still not prepared for it.

My vision begins to swim almost immediately as she chokes me, the gag making it even harder for me to attempt to draw breath. My body wants to cough but I can't, so instead I shudder as my throat and lungs constrict.

I thrash against the ropes, trying to escape her grasp and pull my right hand free. I haven't had enough time or energy, however, and my movements are fruitless.

The woman's grinning face fades as my efforts slow and darkness consumes me. My last thought it this:

_I'm going to die without ever having told John I love him_.

2:00 p.m. –

The fact that I wake at all is amazing to me, and it takes me a long time to open my eyes or become cognizant of anything other than the terrible, aching pain.

_John_. His name gives me strength and I lift my lids, worried of finding more torture prepared for me.

I am alone.

I do not waste this time. I'm in a far more perilous situation than I originally assumed. There is a great danger of one of these people actually killing me, and John won't even know something is wrong until he gets home – and that's only if he finds the syringe.

There's too much uncertainty as to whether I'll survive. I have to take matters into my own hands.

I manage to raise my head and look at the rope holding my right wrist. They've been so distracted hurting me they haven't seen the space I've created. I manage to twist my arm around and I get my fingers to work on the knot, pulling at threads and focusing wherever it will give.

Each second is torturous, but I keep going. Blood runs in small rivulets down my arm.

Finally I make enough room and my wrist and arm slip free.

Agonizing pain splinters through my appendage, bringing tears to my eyes. After being in that strained position for so long, my muscles reject the sudden movement. In addition to that, the sudden loss of support sends me swinging forward, pulling the already taught muscles in my left arm and shoulder. I feel as though I'm literally going to pull apart.

I grit my teeth and blink away the tears, quickly pulling out my gag and tossing it aside before bringing my right hand to my left and starting to work on its rope. I move quickly, knowing every second is another that could bring my torturers' return.

My determination brings me to success, though blood is coursing down both arms.

I'm prepared for when my wrist leaves the rope, but I overestimate the strength of my legs. I fall to my knees, bruising them against the hard floor.

Twisting around, I start to pull on the ropes binding my feet together. This time, I'm in luck; the knots on my arms were tight because my weight pulled against them, resulting in looser knots on my ankles.

Once I'm free I get to my feet, slipping in the pool of my blood. Absently I realize these pyjamas are completely ruined.

My muscles are weak and my progress is slow to the door. Even during unconsciousness my legs must have been working; that's the only explanation. Constantly trying to balance and adjust for every shift of my weight. I may have muscular endurance, but I've never been put through anything like that before.

When I eventually do reach the door I pull to open it, only to realize it is locked.

I collapse to my knees, leaning my forehead against the cool metal. I tried. I feel like I should do something more, pick the lock or find some way to break it down. I'm so tired, though, and after the trek to get here I'm content to just rest.

Each breath is agony and all my muscles are screaming at me to stop. Normally I'm so good at ignoring my body, but this time I listen.

I slip further down so I'm lying on the floor, pressed against the door. As new blood finds its way to the surface of my skin I pretend the warmth is John, my doctor here to take care of me.

_So this is what it takes to break me_, I think, slightly delirious. Every man thinks he can withstand pain until the pain starts. All I want is for the darkness to take me away, so I can escape the misery that is my body.

_I love you, John_.

I fear I will never get the chance to tell him.

3:02 p.m. –

Footsteps alert me from my semi-conscious state, the pain too pervading to allow me to actually drift.

"How did he get there?" The woman is back, her voice furious.

"I dunno." Thug 2, the man with the whip, is here as well.

"Well, pick him up. We need to put him back." I'm grabbed roughly and I'm so weak he has to hold most of my weight. Some of the marks on my back have started to scab over, but his rough grasp breaks a couple and I feel the blood begin to seep. I start to worry about blood loss.

He keeps my arms behind my back, twisting them uncomfortably. After hanging from them for hours, though, this hold is nothing.

"You'll have to do better than that." I mock, my voice rough and unintelligible.

"What did he say?" The woman snaps. Thug 2 shrugs. My eyes remain closed.

"Tie him up again. And we'll have to do something to ensure this isn't repeated."

"What do you want me to do?" I want to strangle this man for his blind obedience. "I mean, look at him. He's not going anywhere like this."

She clucks her tongue. "That's what you said before. We need to make sure."

I can practically hear the wheels turning as he drags me back to the center of the room.

"How did he get out?" he asks. The two of them survey the ropes as I watch through half-open eyes.

"He must have undone the ropes. Not cut, but pulled."

"Which arm?" She grins at his question and turns to look at him, light in her eyes. I tighten my jaw in preparation for the new pain. The thought of fighting crosses my mind briefly, but then I remember how much energy it took me just to walk to the door.

"If I had to guess," she examines the ropes again. "His right."

He wastes no time; with the precision of a man with training and experience, he twists my right wrist until it breaks.

Despite my preparation, I still moan at the pain. I would despair at the thought for what this means in terms of my life, like playing my violin, but I don't think I'm going to survive long enough for it to matter.

They tie me back up, taking extra care with each knot so it's extra tight, moving from my wrist to my forearm on my right limb. They needn't have bothered. With broken bones there's no way I'm getting myself out of it again.

Before they go they shove the gag back in my mouth, the sharp copper of blood spreading across my tongue.

3:54 p.m. –

I stare at a wall, my mind a haze. Deep within the recesses of my thoughts there is surprise at how efficiently they've reduced me to such a primal state, but mostly I am unthinking, settling into the throb of pain that courses through my body with each heartbeat.

The leader, Thug 1, shows up. I glance around the room, but he seems to be alone.

I want to speak, but the gag gets in the way. Just as well.

The man walks up to me, slipping his hands into his pocket.

"We're still waiting for your doctor to show up." He smirks at me, stepping smartly around my blood and getting close to me. "We thought he might have picked up some of your tricks, but it looks like you are still 'number one'." He holds up his index finger and waves it in front of my face. Then he laughs at himself. "But no matter. This just gives me a turn."

A sliver of hope shoots through me at the thought of John looking for me. I knocked the pillow over for that purpose, but I had no idea if he would get the message.

"Carter liked to burn with fire." Thug 1 pulls the phial I noticed earlier from his pocket, examining it fondly. "I have a different kind of burn in mind."

Acid. It's a kind I've used before, but my brain isn't working properly and I can't come up with the name.

"Don't worry; I won't let this eat through your arm." He holds up a hose that I failed to notice.

Failed to notice? I am absolutely disgusted with myself. Or I would be, if I could conjure up any emotion beyond apathy and pain.

The gag is still keeping me from replying.

He looks at me expectantly, like he's waiting for a reaction. I have none.

"Well, let's get started then."

He unscrews the top of the phial and allows a small drop to spill onto my arm. My cry is muffled by the gag, but it's enough to make him smile.

"I thought so. Not quite as emotionless as you would like to appear, are you?"

I hold back another yell as a second drop joins the first. It feels as though my skin is on fire.

"Hmm…" he looks me over. "You know, you're legs are looking a little too healthy." He turns his attention, and his acid, to said limbs.

After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, he stops dotting acid on my skin. He makes a motion with his hand and water starts coming from the hose. Spraying my chemical burns quickly, I barely have time to register relief before the water is gone. The burning sensation returns, though with less force.

There is no part of me that does not hurt.

Hurry, my John.

4:41 –

Red hot pain.

Lights flashing from within my head.

Please. Make it cease.

5:50 p.m. –

All four of them come. The three who took me and the woman. They're speaking, but I can't make out their words.

Someone slaps me for my silence.

Another flicks my broken wrist, sending crackling pain down my arm.

My breathing is erratic as my body struggles to cope with this measure of pain.

When the blackness comes, I welcome wholeheartedly. Perhaps this will be the time my body shuts down for good.

6:10 p.m. –

I slip in and out of consciousness, clinging to the darkness as an escape. Maybe John won't get here in time. Maybe I will die.

I don't want to die.

7:13 p.m. –

Sounds of fighting rouse me but I lack the energy to move. My eyes flutter open and blurrily I see all four torturers fighting against a swarm of policemen. All the good guys are in uniform except the one fighting the man who whipped me.

I try to look closer at them, determine who is fighting out of uniform.

John. _John_.

Sudden energy infuses me and I call out. "John!" (As luck would have it, my gag fell out at some point during my unconsciousness.)

"Sherlock!" Someone replies, but it's not John. There are more officers than torturers, and several come over to help me. I recognize them, but not enough to apply names. They've been background in my life up until this point.

"Mr. Holmes," a different man than the first speaks to me. "Mr. Holmes, let us help you."

I nod and they immediately start cutting the ropes. Two catch me and place my arms around their shoulders, supporting all of my weight. I try to help but my knees buckle.

I've gained some strength back, though, and I'm able to support my head. I look around as we move, trying to find John. He's out of my sight, and I hope that he isn't hurt.

"Where's John?" I ask the men as we reach an ambulance. I'm surprised by the amount of people he managed to bring to help me. They set me down and several ambulancemen begin working on me immediately. I hiss as they start cleaning my wounds, the sting an unpleasant addition to all my other pain.

"Sorry," one of them says as they continue working. I'm feeling stronger every second now that I know I'm going to be okay. My worry for John is beginning to override everything else.

I let them work on me for a while longer, still too exhausted to do anything more.

7:59 p.m. –

"Where's John?" I eventually repeat myself, raising my voice. They ignore me, which is frustrating. I know what I say next is a bad idea, since I need the help, but I'm feeling better and filled with a desire to rebel at their disregard. "No, stop helping me and find him."

They step back, frowning at me. "You need treatment, Mr. Holmes."

"Obviously." I scowl. "I survived several hours of this; I think I can make it a few more minutes."

"Sherlock?" This time it is John's voice calling my name. Love floods through me. I never thought I would hear him again.

My head swivels, searching for him. "John?" I call back.

I look up and there he is. Instinctively I stand to go to him but I falter, my legs still unable to hold my weight.

John jogs up to me. "Hey," he smiles, one hand reaching for me but then pausing. As if I could care about what people think of us now. I scan his face and body, taking in the bandages on his head and arm. Nothing compared to me, and yet I still hate his pain.

"John." I reach out with my good arm to take his hand, watching as he looks over my injuries. Horror crosses his face as he sees the extent of my pain. The two ambulancemen try to help me again but I shoot them a glare, warning them to give me just a few more minutes.

I pull him closer, wincing as this motion pulls at my wounds. John's eyes are still scanning my body, seeing so much with his doctor's mind.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what did they do to you?" He asks, his eyes meeting mine again. His free hand reaches up to tentatively brush my face.

"It doesn't matter." It really doesn't. John's here now, and I will heal. The only thing that matters is that I have to tell him.

"John." _I love you._ I raise our fingers to brush my knuckles softly against his cheek. My brave John.

8:22 p.m. –

"What, Sherlock?" Can he really not know? I feel myself starting to smile for the first time all day. My selfless John.

"I love you."

Joy lights up his face and he comes closer, putting his arms around me gently. I understand his desire to keep pressure off my injuries, but I care less about being hurt than holding this man as close as I can.

I embrace him tightly with my left arm, my grip almost desperate. One of John's hands holds my neck, the other very lightly around my back. I have the irrational thought that if I never let go then nothing will ever bring us apart.

I press my face to his neck, breathing him in. Mixed in with blood and sweat and adrenaline is the scent of him, of John. The scent of home.

After a moment I realize John is struggling to breathe and I loosen my grip. The hand on my neck reaches up to smooth my hair, ignoring the blood.

"I love you too, you idiot." John says softly. He pulls back, pressing his forehead to mine and looking into my eyes. "Don't ever scare me like that again."

Then he kisses me before I can reply.

Lestrade's long whistle breaks through our moment and we pull apart, both looking toward the noise. Lestrade is grinning, his hands in his pockets. Donovan is a strange mix between shock and confusion and Anderson is outright flabbergasted.

I can't help but smirk at their reactions and a quick glance shows John feels the same.

We look back at each other, ignoring the audience.

"You sure you're ready?" he asks, tilting his head at me.

"Of course." I raise an eyebrow. "A bit too late to change my mind."

John smiles at me and I return it, but then the ambulancemen won't stay back any longer. They push him away so they can keep working on me, immobilizing my wrist and cleaning off more of my blood.

"Okay, fine, just take me to the hospital." I tell them, letting them help me up into a stretcher. "But bring Doctor Watson!"

John grins and climbs in after me, finding a place to sit and watching them work.

"What kind of acid was it?" he asks, eyeing the burns on my legs.

"It was clear. I – " I'm about to say 'I don't know' but then I realize I do. Welcome back, mind. "Hydrochloric."

A sound of shock escapes John's mouth. He looks to the others. "Treat those immediately."

They follow his orders and in the steady rumble of the ambulance and the comfort of John's presence, I realize just how tired I am.

"John," I say, my eyes slipping closed. He stands and comes closer, staying out of their way but managing to take my hand.

"I'm here, Sherlock."

I return his grasp. "Thank you."

He laughs lightly, and that's the last sound I hear as I slip into a welcome sleep.

**Author's Note: Three Things – **

**First, all of your reviews are so motivational. The knowledge that there are real people out there reading and enjoying my story really makes me step up my game, and I hope I can continue to fulfill your expectations. Getting your feedback is inspiring and uplifting, and I don't take it for granted.**

**Second, I realize we've reached the point where the story is getting ready to end. Before you wonder (or worry), there are at least two more chapters (plus an epilogue) left. If I am struck by inspiration then there may be one or two more than that. But I don't want it to drag on and lose whatever it is that is keeps bringing you all back.**

**Third, thank you. (!)**


	19. The Healing Process

Chapter 19: The Healing Process

I sit by Sherlock's hospital bed, holding his hand while he sleeps. They made me leave to get myself treated, but as soon as I was able I was back here, by his side. I've been here for hours now, keeping vigil and making sure he keeps breathing. The sun is just barely starting to rise.

Sherlock looks far healthier. He's covered in bandages, of course, but all the blood is gone and his hair is washed. Now sleep is returning the color to his cheeks and erasing the bags under his eyes.

I look at his right wrist, which is in a cast, and sigh. It may be months before he's able to play his violin again. I hope there's no permanent damage. They didn't let me see the x-ray, so I can't judge for myself how bad of a break it is.

I look back to his face and see his eyelids flutter; he's waking up.

"Hey," I say gently, watching the awareness return to his expression.

"Hello." I'm glad to hear his voice is nearly returned to normal. The dark bruises on his neck serve as a reminder of his suffocation. "Are you alright?" he looks at me, worry in the crease of his eyebrows.

"I'm fine." Physically, I'm not worried. I'm not as confident about my mental state, but I've kept it together this long. "More importantly – how do _you_ feel?"

"Annoyed." His reply, short and to the point, surprises me. I let out a short laugh.

"Why?"

He just gives me a look and lifts up his right arm. I grimace. Of everything they did to him, that probably hurt the least, and yet it's the most inconvenient.

"Yeah, sorry," I rub my thumb over the fingers on his left hand. "But, Sherlock, I'm just glad you're alive."

His eyes soften. "I am as well. I'm rather surprised."

We're both silent for a moment, contemplating that.

"Come closer," he requests, pulling at my hand. I slide my chair forward until my knees hit the side of his bed.

He turns slightly so he can face me, although the movement makes him wince. I place my chin on his pillow, putting our faces even. His eyes scan over me.

"What?" I ask, watching him watch me. This close I see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and for a moment I am in awe of their variance and beauty.

"I love you," he says. My heart skips a beat.

"You said that before." I point out. I don't want to get my hopes up for him saying it often.

"I know." Sherlock is very serious. He grips my hand more tightly. "I should have told you sooner."

"It's okay." I smile, but he still looks worried. "Really. I understand."

"But I could have died, John. And I never would have said it."

"But you did." I lean forward and press my lips to his forehead. When I pull away his eyes have closed, and I watch them open again. He looks a little better.

"I did." He thinks for a moment, his gaze going up to the ceiling. I wait patiently.

"You say it." He says suddenly, still looking up. I raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't look at me. I wonder what he's thinking.

"I love you." I watch the smile spread across his face. His gaze returns to mine.

"I wish I could hold you." Sometimes I absolutely love Sherlock's blunt honesty.

"Me, too." I respond. He frowns, looking down at himself.

Just then, a third voice joins our conversation.

"Touching, touching."

"Mycroft." Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes, moving so he's flat on his back again. I sit up straight and turn to see Sherlock's brother. Sherlock doesn't loosen his hold on my hand, so I don't let go, either.

I'm angry that Mycroft has shown up now.

"I contacted you," I accuse, glaring at him. "You didn't pick up my calls or answer my texts. And your assistant was equally useless."

Mycroft steps fully into Sherlock's hospital room. "I was busy. I had important, time-sensitive issues that required my presence."

I glance at Sherlock, who is resolutely staring away from us.

"Mycroft, your brother was _dying_." I don't care to hear Mycroft's excuses. He should have helped. This reminds me of his uselessness during the Moriarty finale – only this time, it was all real.

Mycroft looks over Sherlock. "He appears alive to me."

I'm about to retort when Sherlock speaks. "John, it doesn't matter." I look at him and he catches my gaze. He's removing himself mentally from the situation; I can see it in his eyes. They're closing off, getting colder.

I don't want to overstep my bounds. It's not my place to fight Sherlock's battles for him. But it is not acceptable for Mycroft to act this way, and I can't just stand by and let Sherlock allow his brother's negligence.

Sherlock sees the conflict in my eyes and nods slightly.

I look back to Mycroft. "You shouldn't treat Sherlock like you don't care if he lives or dies."

Mycroft watches me coolly. "When was the last time you spoke with Harry?"

My eyes narrow. "That's irrelevant. If someone tried to contact me about her being in danger, I would be there."

Mycroft looks between the two of us, his eyes pausing on our still joined fingers. "I knew my brother was in good hands."

I pause, thrown by the unexpected compliment. Is he saying he's okay with my relationship with his brother? Not that he could do anything to change it, but things can be difficult enough without Mycroft Holmes against us.

I'm not sure how to respond. I glance at Sherlock, but he's watching me quietly, his face smooth.

I look back at Mycroft, who smiles. "May I speak with you in the hallway?"

Feeling a little used, I turn back to Sherlock. His eyes are narrowed as he tries to figure out his brother's motives, but he nods.

"I'll be right back," I tell him, squeezing his hand for emphasis. Then I stand and follow the elder Holmes.

We go several paces into the hallway before stopping; Mycroft must not want Sherlock to hear what he has to say. I cross my arms defensively.

"I've trusted you with my brother for a very long time now, John." Mycroft begins, twirling that ever-present umbrella. "So do not mistake this as a warning or a test."

"Alright." I lean against the wall, wanting to appear casual, but actually very tired. I _did_ stay up all night watching Sherlock. "Then what is it?"

"If you are truly dedicated to life with Sherlock, there are some pieces of information of which you should be made aware."

I wait expectantly.

He smiles slightly, just a twitch. "Sherlock does not like to share. You've seen this already, in the way he would disregard your previous girlfriends. Now you have tied yourself even more firmly to him. He may not even realize it, but he will be very protective of you."

This is not new to me, so I stay silent. Mycroft continues.

"His family relationships are best described as strained." Mycroft tilts his head and stares unseeingly into the wall next to me. "Our father died many years ago, and we do not talk about it. He hasn't spoken to Mummy in years. She was never loving; far too focused on us being successful to waste time with hugs or presents."

Mycroft pauses here, a sour expression on his face. Interesting. Perhaps he would not be so cold, had he had a warmer upbringing.

"And then, of course, you've heard how he talks about me." Mycroft's eyes return to mine. "We're the healthy ones in our family."

"Years of lost affection." I say, comparing my own childhood and frowning at the stark contrast. Harry and I have never gotten along, but we're not nearly this antagonistic toward each other. My parents weren't spectacular, but I always knew I was loved. And I always had friends.

"Precisely." Mycroft nods. "This will be the most complicated relationship you will ever have. And you will be the most important person in his life."

"I knew what I was getting myself into." Mycroft's information does nothing to worry me; in fact, it makes me feel a little better. This is the Holmes way of giving a blessing. I wink, turning to head back to Sherlock. "And I'm not going anywhere."

When I enter Sherlock's room he looks at me expectantly. I shrug.

"I guess it was Mycroft's version of the 'big brother' speech." I tell him, going back to my chair and sitting on its edge, taking Sherlock's hand in both of mine.

"I don't need him interfering on my behalf." Sherlock frowns.

"He wasn't interfering." I pause. Then, more quietly. "I'm sorry about your father."

Sherlock looks away, and I can see his frustration at being unable to move freely.

"It doesn't matter," he replies eventually. I wait. Patience is key with Sherlock.

"He wasn't particularly kind." Sherlock's words are slow, and I realize immediately how important this is, since he hasn't just deleted it. "It's not that he was cruel; he just didn't pay me much attention." He clears his throat, shooting a glare at the door. "Mycroft was more of a father to me, in my younger years. And then Father died and I found sanctuary in my deductions." He shrugs.

My eyebrows constrict. However he may phrase it, Sherlock is hurt that his father wasn't there for him.

"I'm sorry." I lean down to kiss his palm, just above the bandages on his wrist. His fingers curl to cup my cheek, and I look up at him.

"John." His eyes narrow in confusion. "You lied. You're not fine."

"My injuries are – " I start, but Sherlock immediately begins shaking his head.

"No, not physically."

I release my breath and stare at him, letting my head rest in his hand.

"Of course I'm not fine, Sherlock. I thought I was going to lose you. Again." I close my eyes, trying to fight off the pain. Sherlock is here, he's right in front of me. He's going to live and be fine. Better than fine, in fact, if I have anything to do with it.

"John." I open my eyes and see Sherlock's sweeping across my face.

"What?" I ask, pushing away this surge of emotion. I made it through the worst of it with my head; I don't want to lose myself now.

He studies me for a moment and then pulls his hand away, using it to push himself over on his bed. I move to do something – stop him or help him – but he waves me away. Eventually, grimacing at the pain, he makes it to the edge.

"Come here," he commands, motioning impatiently. I obey, climbing carefully to the spot he created for me, trying to avoid jostling the bed. He's positioned himself so I can lay my head on his shoulder or chest, but I am all too aware of the abuse his body went through.

Instead I prop my elbow and lean my head against my own hand, looking down at him. He frowns at me.

"Sherlock, I don't want to cause you any more pain." I protest. Yes, I want to be close to him and prove to myself that he really will be okay, but hurting him in the process would be incredibly counterproductive.

"John, stop being so self-sacrificing and let me comfort you." Both his tone and expression are daring me to disobey.

I struggle for a moment. We're both stubborn, but I've never been able to refuse Sherlock for long. "Fine." Not to mention, this is what I want, too.

I cuddle – there's no other word for it – into the crook of his arm. But I keep my arms held against my body, worried about putting pressure on his wounds.

"Are you _trying_ to frustrate me?" Sherlock sounds like he can't decide between yelling or laughing.

"Sorry," I mutter instinctively, reaching out and very lightly placing my arms around his body. He adjusts slightly, getting more comfortable, and then I feel him lay his head against mine.

"Do you hear that?" he asks quietly. I'm not completely on his chest, more toward his shoulder, but my ear is against his torso. I listen to the steady beat of his heart.

"Yes," I reply, letting my senses confirm what I've been telling myself all along.

"How does it sound?"

I smile, although he cannot see it. "Alive."

Sherlock hesitates, and when he speaks again there's a note of uncertainty in his voice. "If you're worried something like this is going to happen to you…" he begins. He takes a breath, like he's bracing himself, but I speak first.

"No. Nope, Sherlock, don't even consider it. That's not even an option."

"But, John, I would understand – "

"But I wouldn't. I don't even want you to think of that, okay? Stop it." Deciding affection is more important, I hold him a little tighter. "I know you are constantly analyzing everything; I know you can't help it. But, please, don't analyze what isn't there."

"I want you safe," he says softly.

"Believe me, the last thing I'm worried about is my safety. Only to the extent where it affects you, alright?" I tilt my head back so I can look at him. He's staring at me, analyzing, like I said.

"You're far too altruistic, John."

I laugh and return my head to its position against his body. "Not really."

His fingers stroke a comforting rhythm against my side. I close my eyes, soaking in the experience. As yesterday showed, we never know when our last moment together could really be our _last_ moment together.

"Better?" he asks, using the word that has somehow become "ours."

"Yeah. I love you."

He smiles into my hair. "As I love you."

…

The vibration of Sherlock's chest as he speaks wakes me, and I realize slowly that I must have fallen asleep.

"Not anymore." Sherlock says, and it takes me a moment to realize he's not speaking to me. Which means…there's someone else in the room.

I start to sit up, but Sherlock holds me back and I realize that there's no way to gracefully get out of this situation.

"Welcome back, John." Oh. Lestrade. I grimace while he still can't see my face.

"Hey, Greg," I say, shifting so I can look at the Detective Inspector.

My position on the bed is a little precarious, and I'd be worried of falling if Sherlock's arm wasn't securing me.

Lestrade is standing at the end of Sherlock's bed, grinning. I meet his gaze and determinedly ignore the heat rushing up my neck and ears.

Sherlock chuckles. "Well, now we're both awake. What's so important that you had to interrupt my healing process?"

I take that to mean Sherlock was asleep as well, and I feel a little better.

"I just wanted to check on you." Lestrade shrugs, nonchalant.

"No, that's not it." Sherlock narrows his eyes, examining Lestrade. Of course Sherlock sees more than I. Frowning, I try to read what Sherlock did in Lestrade's body language that gave away an ulterior motive. I don't have much luck.

Lestrade sighs; he should know better than to lie to Sherlock. "You're right, it's not. I – well, I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Sherlock looks perplexed, but I know exactly what Lestrade is apologizing for. I'm too grateful that Sherlock's safe and too tired to hold a grudge, though.

"Don't worry about it, Greg." I say, holding back a yawn. "Everything turned out alright."

"You call that alright?" Lestrade motions toward Sherlock. I look at him and get locked in his gaze.

"He's alive, alert, and healing." I'm caught in the green-grey of Sherlock's eyes. "That's all I could hope for."

It's silent for a moment while we look at each other, and I forget Lestrade is even in the room until he clears his throat.

"Right," he shifts from foot to foot. We both turn to look at him. "Well, John, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. And Sherlock," he barely glances at Sherlock before looking away. It _is_ hard to see Sherlock so bandaged, and there's nothing covering the bruises on his neck. Lestrade hasn't had as much time as I to get used to it. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you."

"It's fine." Sherlock says. I detect confusion laced in his tone, but I doubt Lestrade hears it. I'll explain later.

"No, it's not." Lestrade sighs. "But I've learned my lesson. I need to start placing my doubts elsewhere. And we got everyone who was a part of…" he waves his hand toward Sherlock, and I know he's trying to come up with another way of saying 'torturing you.' "…This. I'm confident they'll all be found guilty.

"Good," Sherlock says, his tone darker.

Lestrade looks between the two of us, and I hope he has something to say to diffuse the tension in the room. He nods toward us, saying, "Congratulations, by the way. I'm happy for you both."

I pause to allow Sherlock to answer, and when none is forthcoming, I respond, "Thanks, Greg."

Lestrade nods again, looking a little uncomfortable. "I'll go now."

He starts to leave, but just as he reaches the door Sherlock calls, "Oh, Lestrade?"

Hesitating in the doorway, once hand on the frame, Lestrade looks back at us. Sherlock smiles. "I'd like a copy of that photograph."

Lestrade averts his eyes, and – is he _blushing_? "Sure thing, Sherlock." He's looking anywhere but us. "I'll – uh – I'll send that now."

Then he takes off.

"What photograph?" I ask Sherlock. Sherlock smiles.

"You'll see in a minute," he glances around. "Where's my phone?"

I look with him until I remember I brought it from the flat – I had put it in my pocket and forgot about it.

"Here," I squirm a little to reach my trousers and pull out his phone. I'm glad to see it wasn't hurt during my fight.

Sherlock removes his arm from around me to take and examine it. I place a hand against the frame to keep from falling.

"You scratched it," he says, frowning slightly. I just laugh.

"Yeah, sorry, _that's_ what I was worried about while I was trying to keep that bloke from killing me."

Sherlock catches my eye and opens his mouth – to say what, I have no idea – but then his phone buzzes with a new text.

We turn our attention to the phone and he unlocks it so we can view the message. At the top I see it's from Lestrade, but other than that there are no words. Just a picture attachment.

Sherlock clicks on the attachment and we wait for it to load.

It's a photo of me and Sherlock, asleep on the hospital bed. Greg must have taken it right when he arrived.

I'm not vain, so I don't spend a lot of time looking at myself in photographs or the mirror. I like this one, though. My head is tucked into Sherlock's side, so only part of my face is visible. My left arm is spread across his chest, my fingers curling slightly as they reach his side.

Even better, Sherlock looks peaceful. All the stress from his face is faded away as he sleeps. His head is tilted toward me, though mine is too far away for him to actually rest against it. Since I'm turned toward him you can see his left arm around my back, fingers spread out across my side.

"We look comfortable," I say after a moment.

Sherlock nods, but he's still slightly frowning.

"What's wrong?" I ask him. He stares at the picture for another moment before locking his phone and handing it back to me. I slip it into my pocket, still waiting for an answer.

"I've never considered myself attractive, John." Sherlock says, after another pause. His arm comes back around me, almost absentmindedly. "But I know that other people do, and I've been able to use that."

"I know," I reply, remembering Lydia.

He's silent a little longer, and I'm starting to wonder if he's ever going to get to his point when he continues, "I now understand your hesitance to remove your shirt. What will my body be when I take off these bandages?"

It sounds like Sherlock is worried about being unattractive, but I know that's not what he means. It's one thing to be egotistical about your body; it's quite another to be worried when what you're used to, what you've lived your whole life with, seen grow and mature, changes.

I understand where Sherlock's coming from. He's not worried about becoming ugly – he's worried about not recognizing himself. I felt the same way when I was recovering from my shot. When you're used to the smooth planes of your skin and the way your body feels, the idea that it will be different the next time you look at it can be very unnerving.

"You'll still be you." I tell him, pulling from my experience. "And we can't know what scarring will occur until we actually see it."

"But…" Sherlock's almost pouting. "You already liked the way I was."

"Oh, Sherlock." I run a hand through his hair. "Don't you remember what you said to me? It's a sign of your bravery and determination to live. And, actually, it's quite the weapon against me."

At that last sentence, his expression turns curious. "What do you mean?"

I grin; my attempt to distract him is working. It helps that what I'm saying is the truth.

"It will serve as a reminder that our lives are fragile, and I never know when I could lose you." I kiss his neck gently. "You flash one of your scars and I won't be able to say no."

I lightly brush my lips against his bruises as he thinks about this. "I wouldn't manipulate you that way, John." He sounds offended that I would even suggest the idea.

I stop my attention to his neck so I can lean back and smile widely at him.

"That's what I call character development!"

He narrows his eyes at my teasing, but I see the smile fighting at the corners of his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You drugged my tea." I remind him, shifting up so I can lean my forehead in the spot below his ear, along his jaw. It moves against my head as he replies.

"If you recall, I only _tried_ to drug your tea. It wasn't in the sugar."

"Details," I scoff, yawning slightly. My fatigue is returning. Mildly I wonder if Sherlock and I will ever have a normal sleep schedule.

_Probably not_, I admit, surprised by how little that bothers me. Maybe my character has developed, as well. More patience and empathy. Well…I consider my most recent interactions. More patience with Sherlock, perhaps.

"Are you tired, John?" Sherlock asks. I pause. I don't want to make Sherlock lay here bored, without whatever little distraction I can bring him through conversation.

"Are _you_?" I avoid answering. I hear Sherlock's smile in his reply.

"You can sleep. I'm not going anywhere." His fingers tighten against my side.

I let my eyes slide shut, but I'm not tired enough to fall asleep immediately.

"I might sleep," I admit to him. He gave his approval, after all. And I've used up all my adrenaline – or at least, that's how it feels.

Just then, a slightly unrelated thought comes to me. "I'm a little surprised no nurses have checked on you."

Sherlock chuckles. "One did. While we were sleeping. But there's been no change, I just need rest. So they allowed me to rest."

I would ask how he knows, since he said "we" were sleeping, but my mind is starting to slip. Even if he told me I wouldn't comprehend all of it.

"Tell me something." I request, just wanting to hear his voice.

"What?"

"I don't care. Whatever you like."

He ponders for a moment. I listen to him breathe, more proof he's alive.

"I like the photograph." I know he's talking about the one just taken by Lestrade. "I didn't know if I would. I asked for it, partly out of curiosity, but also because I expected it to be embarrassing. I was prepared to steal Lestrade's phone and delete it."

I pull my left hand across his chest, placing it over his heart and trying to feel the beat. I love the way his chest rumbles as he speaks.

"But even as I realize that he's probably going to send it to everyone as evidence of us, I find that I don't care. I'm proud."

My words slur slightly as I ask, "Proudof what?"

Sherlock's smiling again. "You."


	20. Potential Scorching Ahead

**A/N: Wow. 100 of you, really? I – I don't know what to say. Thank you.**

Chapter 20: Potential Scorching Ahead

Several days later finds me and my faithful doctor at home, under direct instruction to rest. I stayed silent when John promised we would, smirking slightly to myself. If an interesting case comes along, John will be just as eager to solve it as I.

I love that about him.

"Sherlock, come eat." John calls from the kitchen. I'm lying on the couch, wishing he were with me keeping me warm. My incident has created an interesting phenomenon in my psyche causing me to feel cold whenever I am apart from him. While I am 98% sure it is just in my mind, it feels very real and incredibly uncomfortable. This dependency would bother me if I ever cared to go back to the man I was before John and I actually became _John and I_.

"I'm resting," I call back, hoping he'll bring it out to me so I can distract him. He's become wise to my tricks, however.

"Nice try." John appears in the doorway, resting a hand against the frame. "But no."

He just smiles at my scowl, so I get up in as dignified a manner as I am able, moving slowly to avoid irritating my wounds, and join him in the kitchen. I sit in front of the plate he's prepared for me, a little overwhelmed by the amount of food.

"When did you become a cook?" I ask, surveying the spread in front of me. Beef – shredded and seasoned; fish – catfish, apparently; potatoes – diced and mashed; carrots and peas; and pudding.

"I may not be one," he says, taking his seat. "We'll have to see what it tastes like."

We start eating, and John's hesitancy was unnecessary; it is a very good meal. However, my injuries have done nothing to increase my appetite. I stop before I've finished one plate.

John continues a bit longer, and as he eats I start to tell him about an experiment I'm planning. I've noticed specific patterns in my burns (despite my attempts to avoid looking at them) and I want to see if I could start to tell different acids apart purely from the wounds they leave.

John listens attentively, glancing up and catching my eye every once in a while to indicate he's still engaged. He doesn't say anything, though, letting me pour out my thoughts. It's therapeutic to me, just as it always has been.

Once I've gone through all my hypotheses and plans to move forward I fall silent, watching him. It's nice that John and I can sit together quietly. Too many people feel the need to fill space with words, even if they have nothing of importance to say.

I pull at my cast; it itches.

"Don't do that." John chides, noticing almost at once.

"Yes, _dear_," I respond, unthinkingly sarcastic; most of my focus is on the annoying sensation. John's silence alerts me to something being off.

"What?" I ask, running the last few seconds back in my head. _Oh. _"Not good?" Have I crossed some invisible relationship line?

John blinks and then laughs. "Neither good nor bad, I'd say." He stands up to wash his dishes, grabbing mine as well. "Just very unexpected."

"I don't think I like it." I say, looking at the table and frowning. I imagine John calling me "dear," and then I shake my head quickly. Too much like "boyfriend" – mainstream and limiting. "I know it's supposed to be a term of endearment, but…"

"No, I know what you mean." John comes behind me and places his chin on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around my chest. "We're Sherlock and John, so I call you Sherlock, and you call me John."

"Yes." The uncomfortable twist in my gut disappears. "My John."

John laughs and kisses my cheek. "My Sherlock."

He then releases me and leaves the kitchen, taking the familiar path to the couch. We've all but stopped using our armchairs – they're still there, of course, but it's become an unspoken habit that when we're alone together, we use the couch.

I follow him and, craving contact, carefully lie down and put my head in his lap.

He laughs and runs a hand through my hair. I shiver at the sensation.

"Are you cold?" he asks, aware of my new development.

"Not any longer." Already I feel the heat seeping down my limbs from our points of contact. My toes curl as I settle, my head filling with newfound appreciation for the fabric of his jumper.

John strokes my hair a couple more times and then lets his hand rest, absently twirling a curl around his finger.

"Do you know you do that?" I ask him, focusing on the sensation to chase away the still-annoying prickle in my cast.

"Do what?" he replies, his fingers stopping automatically.

"Twirl my hair around your finger."

I feel John start slightly in surprise, and I look up at him as he looks at his hand.

"No, I guess I didn't. Sorry."

"It's fine." I smile at him, which he returns uncertainly. "I like it."

His smile grows and his other hand comes up against my face, his thumb tracing over my lips. They part slightly beneath his touch.

"You know," he begins, still smiling. "I think it's been several hours since I've kissed you properly."

My eyebrows lift and I sit up so I can face him. His hand falls from my hair but maintains contact, slipping down my arm until he can link our fingers together.

I lean forward, pausing with just a breath of space between us. His eyes, which were focused on my lips, look up to read mine.

"That," I say, letting our foreheads touch, "is entirely unacceptable."

It's impossible to say who closes the distance – we do it together, simultaneously. Our lips meet, at first chastely but quickly moving toward desire. John's fingers in mine tighten and his other hand reaches up to tangle in my hair. He tugs slightly, causing me to gasp.

John uses the break of contact to kiss along my jaw and throat, leaving a heated trail that I can visualize as well as if he had tattooed his path.

I release his hand (annoyed that I only have one to work with) to clutch at his side, following the shape of his body until I find his shoulder, then his neck, then his head, and I use my imitated grip to pull his mouth back to mine. How many hours have I wasted, bored, when I could have been doing _this_?

I try to convey that as I kiss John, share my absolute presence in this moment, and this action, with him. His hold tightens as he kisses me back, his recently freed hand gripping my leg.

He pulls me forward so he's back on the couch and I'm on top of him. He's smart, my John, his inner doctor refusing to allow him to lay on me, despite the pleasure I know he finds in doing so.

John pulls away to breathe and I take my turn to explore his neck, kissing until I reach his clothing and get annoyed. My hand slips beneath the fabric so I can feel his bare skin and my fingers flex against him, moving in time with his breathing. I return my head to his so I can kiss him as I push his jumper and t-shirt up.

He helps me, breaking away briefly to remove the clothing. Once he's able he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer, kissing me again. His top falls to the floor, forgotten.

In the heat of the moment I reach for my own shirt, only pausing once I brush the first bandage. Everything rushes back, all the feelings of inadequacy and dread and pain.

I still suddenly, and John pulls away due to my lack of response.

I don't want to see his eyes, the empathy and worry I know that are there, so I duck down and press my face to his neck, breathing him in. He switches from passion to comfort, his hands loosening to they can stroke down my back softly.

"This is absurd." I mumble into his neck. John does not care about my wrappings or the wounds they hide, the scars they will become, and neither should I. And yet these damn _feelings_ get in the way and all of a sudden I am self-conscious in a way I never have been before. Ludicrous.

What exactly made me stop? It cannot be mere modesty or any such folly. There is some deeper psychological reason for my reaction.

The answer chills me, despite my proximity with John.

"No, it's natural." John soothes, his voice low and calm, unaware of my personal revelation. "You've been through a terrible ordeal, Sherlock, and it's going to take more than a week or two to get over it."

"But it's only _you_." I complain to his neck, opening my eyes and looking across his chest. Maybe if I ignore the other reason, it will go away. "I feel comfortable around you."

"Then it must not be my presence that is making you uncomfortable," he replies, pressing his cheek to my curls. "You haven't looked in a mirror since it happened, have you?"

I avoid the question. He's more observant than I often give him credit. "There's nothing to see."

John reaches one hand down and takes mine, pulling until my fingers rest against the scar on his shoulder, the remnant from that bullet so long ago.

"This is a part of me, Sherlock. It may not be aesthetically pleasing," I open my mouth to disagree, but John heads me off. "Ah, no. But it does not make me more or less of a man."

"I don't – " I falter, not wanting to admit this to myself, much less to John.

"You don't what?" he asks. "Agree? That's nothing new." He laughs, his hand still over mine on his shoulder.

"I don't want to change. I don't want _proof_." I press my face more tightly to his neck, closing my eyes again. What will he think of me now?

"Proof?" John repeats quietly, trying to follow my train of thought. His thumb rubs against the back of my hand. "Oh. Oh, I see. This isn't about your body at all, is it?"

I shake my head against his skin.

"You didn't anticipate it," he continues, talking it through. "You can always see motive and planning, can catch the criminal by figuring out what he's going to do next. But you didn't see this coming." Pause. "Sherlock, do you think they were _smarter_ than you?"

I scoff, my hands tightening, and he flinches. I must have pressed his scar too tightly. "Ouch! Sorry, but that was uncalled for." I feel his glare but I don't look, preferring to stay exactly where I am.

"Alright, not smarter. Just…under the radar. They weren't even a part of the equation – how could you have foreseen it?" He keeps speaking and I let him, taking the question rhetorically. "So you don't really care what you'll look like, despite what you've indicated otherwise. You care that it'll show what they did to you – they were able to get close enough, they found you with your defenses down."

I don't respond.

John sighs, his arms wrapping around me again in a hug. "You are still brilliant and wonderful. And you can wear clothes that hide it from the rest of the world."

"I can't hide from myself." I finally say. "They are, as you say, a reminder. They will resist any attempts at deletion."

"Then we'll just have to make them remind you of something else." John starts to sit up, bringing me with him. I pull away reluctantly so we can get vertical. He stands, offering his hand. "Come on, we need to change your bandages anyway."

I consider arguing, but it's getting late and I don't want to go to bed with an angry John. I accept the proffered hand and follow him to the bathroom, where he seats me on the toilet and rummages around for supplies. I use that time to slowly undue the buttons of my shirt, still upset at my revelation and knowing I'll be stuck with these for the rest of my life.

My head is down as I work, so I barely notice John's movement until he's right there, his fingers brushing against the exposed skin on my shoulder. I inhale sharply at the unexpected tenderness.

I look up and John smiles at me, then pulls back.

"May I?" he asks, indicating the fresh bandages.

"Of course." I reply, letting my shirt fall to the floor and sitting up straighter. John's steady hands get to work, removing the old dressings from my body.

I close my eyes, focusing the whole of my attention on my nerves as they absorb John's movement. Once all is removed John pauses, his hands gently resting on my chest.

"Sherlock," he says quietly. I open my eyes and look at him. He smiles, bringing his hands up to cup my face for a moment before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of a wound. It's the gentlest of touches, as my skin is still raw, and I begin to see what John meant when he said he would make them "remind me of something else."

"This is your intelligence." John states softly, his thumb barely touching as he brushes down the longest of my wounds. "Your most dominating feature." He smiles again, but his eyes are not directed toward my face.

"Here is your musicality." Fingers along another line, tracing around my side. "Fluid, but trying to hide."

"And your bravery." Another light touch. Slowly John's comforting words start to override the deprecating comments and the feelings of worthlessness. I imagine he's painting, my body the canvas, and I let his words flow over me and attempt to accept their truth.

He finds every mark and gives each a unique attribute, sometimes with elaboration, sometimes just one word.

He finishes with the lash that struck over my heart. "Me."

I smile at him when he finally looks me in the eye again. Reaching up, I hold my hand over his, keeping it above my heart. "You."

He grins and pulls me into a hug, his chin resting on my shoulder. "I promise I won't ever tell anyone what a closet romantic you are, Sherlock Holmes."

I consider my response, feeling better and slightly playful. "Considering how long it took you to get out of it, I should think not!"

John's sound of surprise turns to laughter and I share that mirth. Insults and quick comebacks have been my defense for so many years, but I don't have to be defensive with John. Because he will laugh with me when I make a joke; _with _me, not at me. We are the partnership of a lifetime, and if I can let anyone in, it's him.

Then I yawn, and John can feel it against his head.

"Tired?" he asks, pulling away. "Let me finish reapplying, then we can go to bed."

With his words I notice a stinging in my whip wounds from where his body pressed again mine, but I do not find it within me to care. I will endure this and worse if it means I can keep hugging John.

I decide to keep that to myself. I trust John, but if I give him too much ammunition he might just slip up in conversation.

"Thank you." I say as he finishes and picks up my shirt, handing it to me. I take it but don't put it on; pointless, as I would just be taking it off again in a minute.

We both stop and brush our teeth before we leave.

_How very domestic_. The thought, intended to be negative, unexpectedly fills me with pleasure. What has John done to me?

I smile while he can't see me as he leads me out. He heads to my room – I _told_ John when we first got home that I didn't mind taking the stairs, but he insisted – and as we enter I toss my shirt into the laundry basket.

We get into bed and lie on our sides, facing each other. John reaches out a hand and our fingers link lightly. We don't speak, as there is nothing more to be said. My eyes start to slip closed, my body claiming the rest it needs to heal.

The last thing I am aware of is John's warm grasp.

…

When I am again conscious of my surroundings I find myself in an empty bed. I know immediately that's wrong; John doesn't have work. Momentary fear grips me – what if they got him? But I shake it away. Lestrade said everyone involved was caught. He's not so poor at his job that he would be mistaken about that.

I get up slowly, my muscles sore and my injuries resisting any movement. Then I make my way carefully through the flat, searching for John.

I find him in the kitchen, eating toast and reading the paper.

"What time is it?" I ask, startling him slightly.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd be awake." John sets down the paper and glances around, but we don't have a clock in this room and he's still in his sleepwear, so he's not wearing his watch. "It was just after ten when I got up, so probably near ten-thirty now."

"Why did you leave?" I pull out a chair and turn it slightly so I can face him.

He glances down at his toast. "I got hungry. Do you want anything?"

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of any residual panic from finding myself alone this morning. John eyes me carefully, folding his hands over his stomach.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine." I give him the barest of smiles. He nods, glances at his toast once more, and then stands, offering his hand.

"Do you want to go back to bed?"

I take his hand with my left but I don't stand, instead tugging so he's directly in front of me. In this position John is taller than me, significantly so, which is a novel experience.

Almost as if he's reading my mind, John closes the distance and presses our foreheads together, his other hand coming up to cup my neck.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, eyes closed, after a moment in this position. "I really thought you would stay asleep."

"It's fine." My head is tilted back, and I recognize that this is how he often feels around me. I find myself glad that I'm taller but curious as to how kissing him would change by reaching up instead of leaning down. I want to experiment, but this wooden chair isn't what I would call comfortable.

I pull back slightly so he opens his eyes, and then I smile. "Come here," I say, standing finally and pulling him by his hand behind me.

"What are you doing?" he asks curiously, following as always.

"An experiment," I flash a smirk back at him and do a quick calculation in my head. As we pass our chairs I grab a cushion and then lead him to the couch, placing it down and sitting on it. Perfect.

I pull John closer so he's standing between my legs and he looks down at me, bemused.

"Are you…switching our heights?" John tilts his head to the right as he meets my gaze.

"Very good, John." I release his fingers so I can wrap my arms around his waist, ignoring my cast, and his hands come to my shoulders. I look up at him, fascinated by how vast a difference this change makes. "I'm going to need you to kiss me now."

"For science?" he asks as he leans down.

"For science." I agree, my chin lifting eagerly.

The experience is simultaneously new and familiar. Familiar because these are John's lips, and John's tongue, and I've spent an extensive amount of time analyzing them and cataloguing his reactions, what makes him sigh and gasp and respond. But he's also been put in the dominating role, and his natural leadership is breaking through like it never has before. I feel like I'm kissing the soldier John, while before he's always been so cautious to be equal, to give as well as get.

Now, though…now he's _taking_.

"Don't be careful, John." I manage to say, my voice lower than normal, as his lips make their way along my jaw and his teeth find my earlobe. My fingers tighten in the skin of his back.

He pauses, taking in my words, and I can tell he's thinking frantically, many parts of his personality arguing.

The soldier, dominating and demanding, who wants to show himself superior.

The doctor, caring and cautious, ever aware of my healing wounds and the problems of taking things too far.

And the friend, my best friend, supporting and protective, following my lead and watching my back.

He brings his lips back to mine, but I can tell he's still deliberating, still fighting within himself. I don't want him to hold back anymore. I want him to let that part of his character through.

I nip at his bottom lip, teasing him, almost taunting, and he gasps. I can almost _hear_ his reservations crumble to dust.

He pushes forward, his knees hitting the edge of the couch as he bends me backward, stopping only when my head is against the cushions. There's no hesitancy now; this is pure desire. His hands are everywhere, tracing along my chest, gripping at my arms, tangling in my hair.

I try to match his intensity, but every time I push back he stops me, steering back to his path. Heat starts to build in my abdomen in response to this new side of our relationship; I've never known John to be this _fierce_. I find myself desperately wanting to take it further, to bare myself to this man and show him my unequivocal devotion.

But I am still injured.

"John." I pull away, breathing heavily, and I try to gather my scrambled thoughts. His mouth moves to my collarbone, and I have to force myself to focus. "John, stop."

The moment I say "stop" he pauses, pulling back so he can look me in the eyes.

"Really?" he asks. He does not move away but his hands are still, resting on my chest.

I nod, knowing how I must look. My skin flushed, pupils dilated, breathing short – there's no doubt that my body wants to keep going. I would be embarrassed, but John's in no better state than I.

"I-I can't." I hate to admit it, to admit weakness, but I don't want sex with John to be tainted by injuries and a _cast_, for goodness sakes.

I see in his eyes as doctor-mode switches on and he immediately backs off, giving me room.

"Are you okay?" His eyes sweep over me and it's intriguing how he can remove his personal desires and see me in a completely different light, viewing only the injuries and their cause. He is an excellent doctor.

"I'm _frustrated_." I reply, glancing down and knowing John understands. "But apart from that, fine."

His eyes keep searching my body, examining the bandages. I let my head drop back and I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse.

"I'll be right back," John says, and I open my eyes and watch him take the stairs up to his room. Based on the sounds I hear, I anticipate what I see when he returns, wearing jeans and a clean jumper.

"You go get dressed, and I'll make some tea." John says, coming over to me again. I sit forward at the couch, leaning my forearms against my knees and looking up at him.

"I didn't know you were like that." I tell him.

He smiles slightly, sitting next to me. I turn so we're facing each other.

"I'm not, usually," he replies, running a hand through his already mussed hair. I almost get distracted, but then he continues talking. "You have a very authoritative personality, and I don't mind letting you lead, not at all." He pauses to smile. "But when you asked me to…"

I frown; I don't recall _asking_ anything. He sees my expression and smirks.

"When you stated your desire," he rectifies, "that combined with the position you put me in kind of…brought it out. Like with Baskerville, it was the situation."

I recall John commanding that young man, demanding respect and getting us access. I was impressed and pleased then, and those emotions have only increased with time.

"But that's not who I am now," John says, in a moment of introspection. "At least, not usually. I'm perfectly happy following you." He nudges me with his shoulder. "I wasn't expecting you to react so strongly."

"Neither was I," I muse, one hand unconsciously going to my abdomen. "I never thought that would be something I would want."

"I guess you learn something new every day, huh?" His eyes twinkle as he says the oft-repeated phrase.

"How are you so interesting, John?" I ask, my eyes sweeping his face.

He shrugs. "You tell me."

I open my mouth to answer, but I realize I do not know. There are so many aspects to his character that are fully developed, coming together to create a truly unique personality. Sometimes he embodies clichés, other times he shoots a cab driver. Everything I need him to be, everything he wants to be, he is. Are there any others who can say the same?

I certainly cannot.

John pats my shoulder and stands up, heading to the kitchen. "You get dressed, and we'll have that cup, alright?"

I wait until he's gone from my sight and then I stand up and return to my room, reflecting on the experiences of the day thus far.

And eagerly anticipating the removal of my cast.

**A/N: Well, that's it! Except for the epilogue, of course. I'd love to know your thoughts. **

**Thanks again for reading! **


	21. Life Continues

Epilogue: Life Continues

Clipboard in hand, Molly makes her way toward John, who is standing at attention near a wall in the morgue. He's unobtrusive, watching Sherlock examine a body. These are the preliminary stages of an investigation, and John has already given his opinion on the cause of death.

"Hey, Molly," he smiles as she stops in front of him. She smiles back, a little uncertain. She's never really talked to John one-on-one and, despite the fact that everyone else seems to like him, he intimidates her a bit. Not as much as Sherlock, of course, but his natural extension from the overbearing man has created a sort of aura she finds hard to cross when she's on her own.

Also, she never found out how he felt about her knowing Sherlock was alive the entire time.

"John. How are you?"

"I'm great." John's smile widens briefly. "It's nice to have a case again, something for Sherlock to focus on other than me."

"Oh?" Molly raises an eyebrow, eager for a glimpse into their personal lives. Too timid to bring up the subject herself, she is curious enough to pursue the topic further. "How's that going, then?"

"We're fine." John pauses. Smiles. "Great, actually," he glances over at Sherlock, who is still completely focused on the corpse. "Just…don't tell him I told you, but for a couple of weeks…_after_, he was kind of needy. I think it really messed with his head, as much as he'd hate to admit it." _It feels good to share that_, John realizes. To feel as if, just for a moment, he isn't entirely responsible for Sherlock's well-being.

"So…" Molly struggles to understand. She glances at Sherlock, noting how his normal attire of a casual suit completely covers any scars from his ordeal. "Has he started pushing you away, now?"

"Oh, no!" John's mind takes him back to just last night. Sherlock finally got rid of that cast, and he wasted no time making the most of the situation. John smirks. "Nothing like that. We've just settled into a healthier pattern, I'd say. Less dependency upon one another."

Sherlock looks round, searching for John. They make eye contact and Sherlock resumes his examination.

John laughs when he sees Molly watching, her eyebrows raised slightly. "Bad timing, that. We're good, I promise."

"He _has_ always been nicer to you." Molly sighs, the barest trace of wistfulness in her tone.

"Not really." John grins and observes Sherlock's movements fondly. "I've just learned to speak his language."

"Maybe you should give lessons. Greg sure could use them."

John notices, slightly amused, as Molly blushes at her informal use of Lestrade's name. "I mean, the Detective Inspector, he really – "

"Molly, stop stuttering, everyone knows." Sherlock strides up to the pair of them, pulling off his disposable gloves.

"O-oh, they do?" Molly looks down at the clipboard in her hands, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. She and Greg hadn't intended to take it public quite yet – they'd been very vague when telling people they were each seeing someone new – but she should have known that Sherlock would have it figured out.

"Yes." Sherlock says shortly. Then he glances at John and his face softens. "You shouldn't be embarrassed; he is obviously very interested in you."

Molly looks up in surprise to see the very warm gaze of a content Sherlock Holmes smiling at her. Tentatively, she returns it.

"Th-thank you, Sherlock." She curses inwardly at the stutter, but she's never seen him this way. _John really is good for him¸_ she marvels to herself.

"You're welcome." Sherlock nods shortly and then starts walking forward, his hand reaching out slightly.

John takes the cue and links their fingers together, falling into step next to him.

"See you, Molly," he says with a wink, and then they're out the door and on their way.

…

The two men head toward Scotland Yard so Sherlock can speak with Lestrade.

"Based on his physique and tan lines, I would say he's an outdoor worker." Sherlock says as the cab takes them to their destination. "Very fit, so long hours of moderate to hard labour."

"So he was strong, right? How would someone be able to strangle him?" John is having a hard time getting the marks from this man's death out of his mind's eye. He looks at Sherlock's neck, healthy once more, to reassure himself. "Unless…maybe they gave him something to keep him from fighting?"

"Possible." Sherlock catches John's eye and offers his hand. John takes it gratefully. "I'll see what Lestrade's men have; any clues to motive will help identify the type of killer we're looking for."

"Of course." The two fall silent, both musing on the case and the unfortunate similarities is exhibits to Sherlock's torture.

When they arrive at the Yard, both Lestrade and Donovan are waiting for them. John braces himself for a slew of derogatory comments, but Sally stays silent.

This is Sherlock's first case since his incident, and he hasn't seen most of them since it happened.

"You look good," Lestrade says, handing over the file.

"I appreciate your insight, but I disagree," Sherlock replies, flipping through the pages. John sighs quietly.

"He means 'thank you'," he tells Lestrade, offering a half-smile and a little shrug. Explaining Sherlock's feelings toward his scars would take too long and, frankly, it isn't John's right to tell.

Sally looks between them, standing an appropriate distance apart for a workplace, and her eyebrows constrict. They seem comfortable around each other, just as familiar as ever, but there is something…different about their stances. She can't put her finger on it.

"Were you the ones who removed his wedding ring?" Sherlock asks, snapping the folder shut and looking up.

"Yes, it's with his personal effects. Would you like to see them?"

"Please." Sherlock hands the folder to John, who takes it and starts looking through. Married, no children. 27 years of age, construction worker for a company John has never heard of. Time of death estimated in the early hours of the morning this past Tuesday…

He scans over the rest, but nothing strikes him as unusual.

Sherlock is now looking through the man's wallet, taking a couple of cards out and setting them on the table.

"I'm sorry!" Sally bursts out, causing all three men to flinch.

"What?" Lestrade and John say at the same time. Sherlock, unnoticed, sighs and continues looking.

"I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it; it was thoughtless." Sally seems unaware that two-thirds of her audience has no idea what she's referencing.

John decides to take the easiest path. "Sherlock, what is she talking about?"

Sherlock stops examining the cards to answer him. "I believe, based on her posture and the way she's looking alternately at you and my chest, that she regrets the comment she made about you being 'whipped,' considering," he pauses, "…considering what then happened to me."

John and Lestrade both look to Sally for confirmation, and she nods slowly.

"I wasn't thinking. I was just…trying to get a rise out of you, I guess."

"She doesn't understand you, John." Sherlock translates, his attention now on the man's watch.

"Doesn't…understand me?" John repeats, confused. "Sally, what…" He doesn't know how to phrase the question.

"You're so…adaptable!" Sally throws her hands in the air in frustration. "You come home injured from the war, and instead of doing what others would do and settle down, maybe have a family, you find Sherlock Holmes, of all people, and get caught up in his mad way of life."

John bristles as she speaks, but Sherlock puts a calming hand on his shoulder. He lets Sally finish.

"And then when people warn you away or – or _taunt_ you," she blushes here, but she keeps on, "you just shrug it off. It's like you know something we don't. Like we're all just idiots bumbling around, but you've got the map."

John blinks, a little disconcerted by this view of him.

"And _now_," Sally's voice is exasperated. "Apparently you've entered into some kind of romantic relationship with him, and instead of being disgusted or put-off, I find myself feeling jealous."

"Jealous?" John repeats, suddenly wondering if there was more of a past between her and Sherlock than he'd ever thought before.

"Not of either one of you specifically, but of what you have. I don't understand how two people can be so bloody perfect for each other."

There is an awkward silence for a minute as three of them look at each other and Sherlock studies the soles of the dead man's shoes. Then Sally leaves, her heels clicking rapidly as she escapes down the hall.

"Ummm…" John says, unsure of what to make of that revelation. "You're forgiven?"

He makes eye contact with Sherlock and the two of them start laughing. Lestrade watches curiously, starting to see what Sally was going on about. They seem to have reached a sort of mind-meld, like something between them has synced. Has he ever witnessed Sherlock laugh before?

Lestrade blinks rapidly, clearing his head, and then coughs, getting their attention. They look at him at the same time, moving in tandem. _"Bloody perfect," indeed._

"Can you tell us who did it, then?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I need to see the crime scene, first. But I have some ideas."

"That's more than I have," Lestrade grumbles. Then he straightens up, adjusting his collar. "Right, well, do you want to head over now?"

"We'll meet you there."

As they leave, John asks, "How did you remember what she said?"

"The irony was not lost on me when I realized what they were going to do; I just chose not to dwell on it." Sherlock drapes an arm around John's shoulders; remembering is far easier when he has every sense confirming John's presence. "I didn't think of it again until I saw Sally's behavior and I deduced what she must be thinking."

"I still don't understand how you can do that." John shakes his head in awed disbelief. Sherlock smiles, pleased.

"I merely observe, John."

"Yeah, sure." John elbows him lightly in the ribs. "You're a genius and you know it."

Sherlock remains silent, letting the statement stand.

…

Anderson is already there when they arrive at the crime scene, keeping watch since the body has been moved. Lestrade has yet to arrive.

"Maybe you can make some sense of this," Anderson sneers. Sherlock ignores him, and John decides to follow that example. Sometimes all a bully wants is attention.

Sherlock begins pacing the scene, hands clasped behind his back as his eyes dart around. John looks around as well, but he's not getting much. The victim was killed outside his workplace, a large structure that was having some remodeling done. He was left in the dirt in front of their makeshift entrance.

"Looks like they didn't really think it through," John remarks, looking at where the body is indicated to have lain. "I mean, you could hide a body better than that, right?"

"Unless you want it to be found," Sherlock replies, now looking at angles from which the body could be viewed. Suddenly he runs off, taking the stairs so he can look down at the spot from above.

Watching Sherlock lean over the railing with little thought for his safety makes John slightly dizzy, and he tries to ignore how his heart rate has nearly doubled from remembered fear. Sherlock is not going to jump.

John closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, then looks over at Anderson. As unpleasant as his conversation is, it would be a good distraction.

"How are you, Anderson?" he asks, ignoring the surprised looks from several other policemen who are milling around.

"Fine." Anderson is very confused. He and John have never made any attempts to speak with each other. _Why now?_ "…You?"

"Peachy." John puts his hands on his hips and looks to the ground, shaking his head. He will not have a panic attack. He will not.

"Done anything interesting recently?" he asks desperately, doing his absolute best to smile normally. Anderson can tell something is off, but doesn't know what or why. "Gone on holiday?"

"Not yet, but me and my wife will be going to America in a couple of weeks." Anderson decides to be civil – while he _was_ relatively nicer to Sherlock after his return from the dead, the apparently new relationship between doctor and detective has made him rather uncomfortable. He tries to put that out of his mind. "We'll be visiting Florida."

"Good," John nods, crossing his arms in front of his chest and standing straighter, almost unconsciously going to military stance. "I've heard it's rather hot there."

"It is," Anderson agrees, tilting his head forward. "Have, uh, have you gone on holiday recently?"

"No," a half smile crosses John's face. "But, you know, it may do some good to get out of London for a bit. Explore."

Anderson nods, not really sure how to keep the conversation going. Luckily, he doesn't have to.

"John," Sherlock is back and John turns to face him, the relief evident on his face. Sherlock's eyebrows constrict as he reads what just happened and he steps forward, wrapping his arms around the shorter man's frame.

Anderson looks away as they embrace, embarrassed. They are only hugging, and yet it feels like he's intruding on a very intimate moment.

They pull apart slightly and Sherlock looks down, his eyes searching John's face. John nods, some of the tension fading. Sherlock lifts his head to view Anderson, not completely letting John go. "Tell Lestrade it was the boss."

"The – what?" Anderson asks, perplexed. "How do you know?"

Sherlock begins to stitch together the story. "He was killed here, but he was wearing his normal attire. A wedding ring and a nice watch? He would take those off before working in construction. So, not here for work – to meet someone, perhaps? Killed in the early hours of the morning, so no witnesses, but he was left somewhere obvious so he would be found quickly. Looking through his wallet, I noticed several copies of a competitor's business card and a note from one of his coworkers asking about quitting; it appears he was helping everyone leave this particular group. Now, he was also very fit, so it would have taken someone who was either stronger or smarter to kill him through strangulation."

He uses his grip on John's waist to turn him and then very lightly places his fingers around John's throat. John, trusting him, does not try to break away. "Normally strangulation occurs from the front, but the marks I saw were similar to what I'm doing here. So it was someone the victim knew well enough to let them get close, and who could call him here at that time of night, but also someone smart enough to give themselves that extra amount of time by coming round the back."

Releasing John's neck, he points toward a concrete wall several feet away. "That wall is crumbling, it's intended to go down, and if you look closely you can see where pieces fell away when the murderer smashed our victim's head. The recent rain washed away the blood, but the evidence is still clear. I noticed the contusion when I was in the morgue, but I needed to be here to be sure. So – he grabbed the victim from behind, hit his head hard enough to disorient him, and then strangled him to death."

Sherlock's hand moves to point upward, where he was looking over the edge. John, who had been following the process thus far, averts his gaze. "The other workers' set-up is centered there, and the victim's dead body was placed within optimum view from that point. Left as a warning. The only person with motive, means, and opportunity is the boss."

He looks at Anderson expectantly

Anderson's mouth opens, then closes, then opens once more. He doesn't say anything.

"Do stop gaping, it's offensive." Sherlock is ready to get John away from the crime scene, make sure he really is okay. _Stupid. I should have realized._

"How – how can you be sure?"

"I just walked you through my deductions, but if you get Lestrade to bring in the boss, I would be happy to interrogate him for you. Shall I get you a bag of popcorn, as well?"

"Sherlock," John cautions, voice low. A very large, fake smile appears on Sherlock's face.

"_Thank_ you for letting me examine your crime scene." He bows slightly and whirls away, his hand finding John's to ensure he follows. He needn't have bothered; John is more than ready to leave.

They do not part, however.

Anderson watches them go, a little dazed by what just happened. Lestrade appears next to him, huffing about the traffic.

"What happened?" he asks, still frowning. Anderson turns to him, shrugging.

"When do I ever know?"

…

"Are you sure you're alright, John?" Sherlock asks once they're a sufficient distance away, searching for a taxi.

"Yeah." John rubs his free hand over his face. "I wasn't expecting that kind of reaction."

"It's my fault; I didn't consider what it looked like."

"No, it was – " he's cut off by a long dark vehicle pulling up next to them. The door opens and John sees the familiar brunette of Mycroft's assistant.

"Sherlock is right here with me!" he exclaims, annoyed that now they're being kidnapped together. "Why couldn't Mycroft be bothered to meet us at the flat?"

Anthea smiles pleasantly. "Mr. Holmes does not always share his reasons with me."

"Of course not." John shakes his head and glances at Sherlock, who is glaring at the car. He nudges him. "What do you think?"

Sherlock blinks, and John can see him rearranging his thoughts. "I think we are grown men who can make our own decisions." He pulls on John's hand to get them walking again, leaving Anthea sitting in the car, surprised.

Sudden energy infuses John from doing what he's always wanted to do when he sees that car pull up. He grins. "Fantastic!"

Startled, Sherlock looks over at him. "Have you never walked away from my brother, John?"

John shakes his head; why would he? Meeting with Mycroft usually leads to some insight about Sherlock, which he is eager to get – it is just the method that always puts him off.

Sherlock laughs. "Well, don't ever feel obligated to put up with his theatrics. And if there's anything you want to know about me," he stops, pulling them to the side of the walkway and out of the path of others. He lowers his head so it's closer to John's, "you can just ask."

John raises his eyebrow suggestively, and for a moment it appears they will kiss. Then John pulls away, a grin on his face, and asks, "What were you like as a child?"

Sherlock, looking a bit put-out, lets John pull him forward so they rejoin the flow of pedestrians.

"I was always reading." Sherlock answers, casting his mind back to the parts of his childhood he hasn't deleted. "Although I also had an abundance of energy, so I explored outside, as well."

"Did you play pirates?" John asks.

"How – _Mycroft_." Sherlock's question cuts off before it can really begin, and he says his brother's name like a curse. "Yes, I did. Did he tell you that I always made him walk the plank?"

The sudden image in John's mind makes him laugh. "No! Really?"

Sherlock nods. "Indeed."

"Isn't he seven years older than you?"

Sherlock shrugs, although there's a smile fighting at the corner of his lips. "It was how he rewarded me when I said something clever."

"How old were you?"

"Three, maybe four."

That puts it in perspective in John's mind, and he imagines a small boy with bright eyes and curly dark hair, commanding his older brother to walk the plank. He grins.

There's a sudden hesitancy in Sherlock's words, like he's not quite sure he believes he's actually going to say what comes out of his mouth next. "I do have…photographs. If you would be interested in seeing them."

"Of course I would!" John's step quickens, and Sherlock chuckles.

"We may have to ask Mrs. Hudson where they are. I haven't gotten them out in years."

"Mmkay," John hums in agreement. They walk in silence for a minute. "Oh, so do you know what your brother wanted back there?"

"I have a couple of theories, but none of them interest me at present." Sherlock's fingers tighten in John's.

John considers this answer. "Do you think they'll interest you in the future?"

"Doubtful, seeing as I do not anticipate losing my primary distraction."

"Which would be…?" It's not that John is stupid – he just finds it hard to make himself the center of Sherlock's focus, to believe this brilliant man is not yet bored of him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You."

…

Mrs. Hudson is waiting for the two of them to arrive, eager to congratulate them on their status. They never made it a priority to tell her, seeing as other events occurred, although in hindsight John realizes it was a rather egregious omission. She was for it from the beginning.

Regardless, Mrs. Hudson has tea and biscuits awaiting them when they appear in their kitchen, laughing at a shared joke and hands clasped together.

Mrs. Hudson smiles with joy, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she takes in the scene before her. Oh, how she has longed for these men to be happy, after all they've been through! So much pain and suffering, both together and apart. And now, as they look from each other to see her, the expression of love she finds in their eyes makes her feel as if it has all been worth it.

"Boys, I'm a little disappointed in you!" she says good-naturedly, motioning for them to sit and join her. They do, John looking contrite, Sherlock lifting an eyebrow in that questioning way she always finds so endearing. "I should have been the first you told!"

"To be fair, Mrs. Hudson," John says, "we never actually 'told' anyone. We just kind of…stopped hiding it."

Sherlock nods, reaching out and wrapping his long fingers around a warm cup. "We have been diverted; we would not purposefully keep such news from you."

Mrs. Hudson nods. "I'm just so happy for you," she makes eye contact with both of them, conveying the truth of that statement. She reaches out her hands to grasp at theirs, connecting the three in a makeshift triangle.

"My boys," she squeezes their fingers gently.

"We are hardly children," Sherlock says, but his tone is soft.

"You are still my boys." She releases their hands and returns to her tea, taking a sip but watching them over the edge. John smiles at her while Sherlock helps himself to a biscuit.

Then John remembers Sherlock's offer, and he decides now is as good a time as any. "Mrs. Hudson, do you know where Sherlock's old pictures are?"

Mrs. Hudson is surprised; both at the question and Sherlock's reaction. A faint blush appears, barely perceptible except to those who know him well.

"As a matter of fact, I do," she says to John, standing up to go get them. "You boys leave such a mess, but I knew those were special, so I hid them away soon after finding them." Here she pauses, like she realizes this may have been a breach of etiquette. "Sherlock, dear, you don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock waves a hand. "You have kept them far safer than I ever could."

Mrs. Hudson beams with pride and bustles out in search of those photos.

John nudges his shoulder against Sherlock's. "That was nice of you to say."

"It's the truth." Sherlock replies, although he's smiling slightly. "You live in this flat, do you not?"

John tilts his head forward in acknowledgment. Mrs. Hudson is not, in fact, their housekeeper, which means that often things do not get tidied up. So long as experiments stay contained, however, John doesn't mind.

"Here they are!" Mrs. Hudson returns with a small, scuffed box. Written neatly in her handwriting over the top on a piece of tape is simply, "Sherlock."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock reaches to take the box but John beats him to the punch, leaning quickly and snatching it from his grasp.

"Ha!" John grins, pulling his prize close. Sherlock sighs, but even Mrs. Hudson can hear the patience in his tone.

"Really, John?"

John just lifts his eyebrow in an impression of his flatmate and lifts the lid, pulling out the top photograph. To their surprise it is the picture Lestrade took of them on his phone, from the hospital.

"What is that doing in there?" John asks, handing the photo to Sherlock. His eyes narrow.

"Lestrade, am I right?" he addresses Mrs. Hudson. She nods from the doorway, intending to excuse herself as soon as possible to give the boys some alone time to go through the pictures.

"He sent it to my mobile, and I just thought it had to be a part of your collection."

Sherlock nods, but then he sighs. "Please, don't put your copy on the fridge."

Mrs. Hudson blushes but nods, now having another reason to leave them be. "Of course not, dearie."

Sherlock just shakes his head slightly and returns his attention to John, who is looking at the next picture. It's of the two of them at a crime scene, though John cannot recall any details of that particular case. The angle is from the back, though part of John's face is visible because he's turned toward Sherlock. His mouth is parted slightly as Sherlock gesticulates, so obviously some sort of deducing is occurring.

"Lestrade again?" he asks Sherlock, handing this photo over, as well. Sherlock shrugs and glances backward to ask Mrs. Hudson, but she has disappeared down the stairs, closing the door behind her. He smiles slightly. _Thank you, Mrs. Hudson._

"Let's move," he suggests, standing and taking the box from John's hands. John follows him to the couch, where they sit side-by-side and continue to go through the pictures.

Over time they gravitate toward each other, until they end up sprawled across the couch, Sherlock propped against the edge and John reclining on his chest. Sherlock's arms rest comfortably around John's torso while he holds the photos up so they both can see.

"Here we go!" he says as they reach the baby pictures. Sherlock rolls his eyes and rests his chin atop John's head.

There are only three of these pictures. The first is just of Sherlock, probably four years old, wrapped up to go in the snow. He's frowning, obviously hating the restrictive clothing being forced upon him. John can see the man he'll grow to be in the twist of his lips and the shape of his eyes. He's struck by how bright those eyes are, indicative to the intelligence hiding inside.

In the next he is even younger, perhaps two or three, and he's riding on Mycroft's back, brandishing a stick like it's a sword. John is amazed, not only at how cute Sherlock is, but how different Mycroft looks with an honest smile and a worry-free expression. They may not get along now, but at least they had each other for the early years of their relationship.

The final picture is from before Sherlock could walk. He's sleeping, his tiny hands tucked under his cheek, lips parted in a perfect little 'o.'

John notices how his parents are not in any of the pictures, and he's not sure if that's by Sherlock's design or because they never posed with their children.

"You were an adorable child." John says, nestling back into Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock chuckles, the sound reverberating through his chest and into John's back.

"Would you say anything else?" he lets his head fall back from John's, eyes closing. "After all, I cannot imagine seeing pictures of you and having anything negative to say."

"That's new." John teases, setting the photos aside and resting his arms over Sherlock's. "I can't imagine you seeing anyone else's pictures and having anything _positive_ to say."

"Irrelevant. I would not waste my time looking at pictures of anyone else." Sherlock shifts down on the couch, adjusting so he can reach John's neck. John's reaction to Sherlock's lips is to tilt his head to the side, giving him better access.

John's verbal response, if he had one, gets lost in the sensation and he finds himself having to resist flipping around and reciprocating the action – or more.

When Sherlock's lips reach his jaw he stops resisting, shifting to the side and twisting his neck so he can kiss Sherlock properly. They enjoy that for a moment, fingers tangling in each other's clothes as they hold close, reveling in the experience.

John pulls away first, breathing quickly, and opens his eyes to see Sherlock's penetrating gaze staring straight into his soul.

_This is him_, he realizes, with absolute certainty. _This is everything_.

Sherlock smiles and nods.

**A/N: Well, this is a bittersweet moment. I did it. I finished my first multi-chapter story for Sherlock. I'm sad to see it end, but I'm also very impressed with myself.**

**I have specific people I would like to thank, for their constant presence as readers and their very kind words:**

**Anyrei1**

**PhoenixFeather0198**

**InuChimera7410**

**NicholeLovesPhan**

**Writerfan2013**

**But, I could not have done it without **_**all**___**you fabulous readers. Your feedback and support have kept me going this whole time, inspiring me when I don't feel like writing and encouraging me when I'm not sure the story maintains interest. Every single one of you is important to me (even those who did not review), as I recognize that you are each individuals with lives and joys and pains and dreams. The fact that you took time out of your life to read my story is amazing to me. Thank you.**

**I already have another idea for a multi-chapter fic (I'm hooked) but I want to try my hand at more oneshots before I jump into that. So, if you have any ideas, or requests, I would love to write something for you. Just PM me. ;)**

**Much love,**

– **GemThest**


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